


What Infinite Heart's Ease

by ArcadianMaggie



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: paperlegends, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Revealed, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 65,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcadianMaggie/pseuds/ArcadianMaggie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon era AU. Betrayed by the people he loves best, Arthur finds comfort in the arms of his manservant, Merlin. In the wake of Uther's death, the unrest to the east intensifies and shocking secrets are revealed. As a young king struggling to find his place and control a kingdom on the verge of war, Arthur must decide whether to continue his father's crusade against magic users or place his faith in the one person he thought he'd never trust again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Infinite Heart's Ease - PART 1

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: (Contains possible spoilers) Character Death (not Merlin/Arthur), graphic violence, torture, explicit sexuality, references to incest, non-consensual sex with a minor, blatant use of favourite fic tropes, angst.
> 
> My eternal thanks to my friend and beta [OnTheTurningAway](http://otta_ff.livejournal.com) for her incomparable support from start to finish—from brainstorming, to cheerleading, to necessary prodding, all the way to final editing. I couldn’t have done it without you. You are the very bestest of the best. Huge thank yous also to [magnolia822](http://magnolia822.livejournal.com) for pre-reading, to [40_miles](http://40_miles.livejournal.com) for the Brit pick, and to my wonderful artist [sallyna_smile](http://sallyna-smile.livejournal.com/) for the gorgeous art accompanying this story. I’d also like to thank [sapphirescribe](http://sapphirescribe.livejournal.com), [melooza](http://melooza.livejournal.com), and [icmezzo](http://icmezzo.livejournal.com) for both stepping in as my informal cheerleaders and for the excellent company during WCs. Finally, thank you to [the_muppet](http://the_muppet.livejournal.com) for the amazing job running this challenge.
> 
> Masterlinks on LJ: [STORY](http://arcadianmaggie.livejournal.com/15677.html) | [ART](http://sallyna-smile.livejournal.com/231453.html)
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _Title taken from Shakespeare’s Henry V, 4.1_  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _What infinite heart's ease  
>  Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!  
> And what have kings that privates have not too,  
> Save ceremony, save general ceremony?_  
> 

* * *

  


Arthur grunted as the older boy’s fist connected with his face. Arthur was smaller, but his anger helped fuel him enough to get his own arm free as he twisted underneath the body pinning him to the ground. The crunching sound he heard as his blow reached its target and Valiant’s accompanying howl of rage were grimly satisfying, yet they still couldn’t drown out the mocking words that echoed in his head; Valiant’s constant teasing had turned more and more cruel until taunts about his mother had pushed Arthur over the edge.

The boys grappled and rolled in the dirt, each trying to best the other as they railed wild blows wherever they could reach. Arthur could hear shouts from nearby and the sound of the guards approaching as their scuffle attracted attention, but he paid little attention, focusing instead on making Valiant pay for his remarks, even as he sensed he was losing the fight.

Soon, however, there were hands on his shoulders, prying him away from the other boy. He struggled against them, arms flailing, trying to get at the young lord, but he was held firm. He could see Valiant similarly struggling, arms pinned behind him by one of the palace guards.

“Now what’s all this? What’s going on?” a deep voice asked from behind him.

Arthur made one last attempt to break free, then quieted sullenly when he realized the futility of his efforts. Stubbornly, he remained silent. He noted the blood dripping down Valiant’s face, his nose likely broken, and thought to himself, _good_.

“What’s this all about?” the voice asked again.

Both boys remained silent.

“Right,” the voice said with a sigh. “You want to take that one, and I’ll get this one cleaned up before sending him home?” he asked the guard.

At the guard’s acknowledgment, the hold on Arthur loosened and the man said, “All right. Come with me, lad.”

Arthur immediately lunged for Valiant who was being led away, but the man was too quick, grabbing his arm to stop him.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he said to the flailing boy. “That’s enough of that. Now come with me. I’m sure you don’t need your father seeing you like this.”

At the mention of his father, Arthur immediately stilled, compliant, then let himself be led away.

A little girl ran over to the man and took his hand as they made their way to the smithy. Arthur followed them inside, looking around curiously, feeling the blast of heat as they walked past the forge to a door beyond.

The living quarters were small, and the man’s height and broad shoulders seemed to fill the space. He led Arthur to a bench by a small table and bade him sit down. Squatting on one knee in front of him, he reached out his hand to gently tilt Arthur’s face, first this way, then that, making small contemplative noises as he checked over his injuries.

“So tell me what that was all about, hmmm?” he asked again. “That was young Lord Valiant, was it not?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued on. “Being fostered here at court for a time? I don’t think your father would be keen to learn of you fighting with one of your visiting guests. ” 

Arthur stiffened again at the mention of his father, and jerked his head out of the man’s large hand. 

“Especially one so much older and bigger than you.” The man’s dark eyes crinkled with suppressed merriment; his smile was kind.

“He had no right to say those things about my mother.” Arthur spoke for the first time. His voice was low and he trembled with anger. 

The man’s smile faded. “No. No, I’ll wager not.”

Arthur’s tense shoulders relaxed at the man’s agreement. He blinked rapidly, eyes suspiciously bright.

The blacksmith pretended not to notice. “I’m going to go fetch some fresh water to wash you up a bit, and we’ll see about getting you some clean clothes. I can maybe find something of my boy’s to put you in for the time being, and you can get these mended.” He pointed to the tears at the elbow and knees, obvious signs of his altercation. “All right, Your Highness?”

Arthur nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“It’s no worry,” the man said, rising to his feet. “My name’s Tom.” He retrieved a container for the water and walked to the door. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Arthur nodded again. “Thank you, Tom.”

While Tom was gone, the little girl moved to stand in front of him, staring curiously. He kept his eyes straight ahead, not looking at her.

“Are you really the prince?” she asked.

He darted a glance at her, noting a wild tangle of dark brown curls, wide brown eyes staring. He nodded in answer then returned his gaze straight ahead.

“I’m Guinevere.”

He didn’t acknowledge her, but continued to sit, spine ramrod straight, staring ahead.

Just then Tom returned. He set the water down on the floor by the bench and said, “Give me another minute while I find a cloth and see if I can rustle up something for you to wear.”

He disappeared into the section of their quarters that housed the sleeping area. Arthur could hear him moving about.

Guinevere took another step closer. “My mum’s dead too,” she said.

Arthur flinched and his eyes darted back to her face before quickly looking away. He didn’t speak.

“All right, here we go,” Tom said, returning with a handful of items.

He knelt in front of Arthur again. I’m going to take this off you, all right?” he said, gripping the hem of his shirt.

Arthur nodded and lifted his arms as the shirt was raised. He gasped at the movement, feeling all the places Valiant’s blows had landed. Tom tut-tutted as the material pulled free of his head. 

“Gwennie, can you hand me that salve?” he asked, nodding toward the small container he had placed on the bench.

She handed him the little pot and he dipped in his fingers, bringing them out covered in a thick paste.

“Gaius makes this for me for when I get sore shoulders after working in the forge all day. You’re going to have some nice bruises here. They’ll still hurt, but this should help a little, all right?”

Arthur nodded in agreement.

He winced, obviously in pain as Tom’s fingers rubbed the salve into his skin, but remained resolutely still, staring ahead. Small beads of sweat began to break out on his forehead and upper lip.

“Almost done here.”

Arthur gave another terse nod. 

When Tom finished with the salve, he picked up another item from the bench and shook it out—a plain shirt, the fabric soft and well-worn. He slipped it over Arthur’s head and helped him thread his arms through the sleeves, ignoring the flush that spread over Arthur’s cheeks when a small cry of pain escaped his mouth. The shirt was a little big and hung loose on his shoulders, but it was clean and it would do.

Next Tom poured some water into a bowl and placed it on the prince’s lap, lifting Arthur’s arms by the wrists and dropping his hands into the water. Gently, he held them, so small and pale against his larger ones, and swirled the water against his skin, washing Arthur’s hands. When he was done, Tom placed the bowl back on the ground, drying Arthur’s hands with a scrap of cloth, taking care to avoid the torn skin on his knuckles. Even so, another hiss of pain escaped Arthur’s lips.

After pouring some clean water onto the cloth, Tom leaned in toward the prince, gently brushing his hair back and wiping the dirt off his face. 

Tom spoke as he worked. “I don’t think you need to worry about young Valiant mentioning this. He’ll not want to admit he was bested by a lad smaller and years younger than he.” The smile was back in his eyes and the corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile, but wasn’t sure he was allowed. “We’ll have you as good as new in no time. You take it easy for a few days, and go see Gaius if need be, and no one need ever know about this.”

Arthur hissed again when the cloth pressed across a sore spot on his cheekbone, but remained still, enduring the ministrations. He was surprised when he felt a small hand slip into his own. He didn’t turn to look at the girl again, but when she squeezed his fingers, gently so as not to hurt him, he gave a small grateful squeeze in return.

“Sire?” 

Arthur started, pulled from his memories by the voice near his shoulder.

“What is it, Merlin?” he asked, turning his gaze from the window in his bedchambers.

“I asked if you’d be needing anything else for the evening?”

“No, that will be all.”

Arthur turned his attention back to the window, staring out into the dark night. He could see his manservant out of the corner of his eye, hovering anxiously.

“Arthur—”

“I said that will be all.” His voice held a note of finality.

Merlin sighed. “Yes, sire.”

Arthur waited for the sound of the door closing then let his mind drift again, sinking back into another memory.

Gwen shrieked as a hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her into an alcove. The noise was cut off as skilled lips covered her own, kissing her breathless. She melted against the strong body, moaning as the hand not holding her wrist stroked up her side, stopping at her breast, squeezing and kneading and rubbing a thumb back and forth across her nipple.

She giggled as her wrist was pulled between their bodies and her hand pressed against the bulge in her captor’s trousers. Tilting her head to free her mouth from those demanding lips, she moaned again as his mouth simply attached itself to her neck, nibbling and sucking its way up to the spot just behind her ear.

“Your Highness,” she gasped. “The Lady Morgana is waiting for me.”

“Arthur,” he mouthed against her skin. “I told you to call me Arthur.”

“Arthur,” she repeated; the word sounded like a sigh. “Arthur.”

Arthur sighed as he came back to the present and pulled his gaze away from the window again, looking about his chambers. He noted the table had been righted and the spilt crockery had been placed in a pile at the end, the broken pieces gathered from the floor. One of the chairs was a total loss after its impact against the wall. Merlin, it seemed, had gathered the splintered pieces and placed them near the fire. It was beyond repair. Other evidence of the destruction he’d wrought was apparent—the torn bed drapes, the smear of grey upon the floor, although it appeared Merlin had done his best to clean the spilt ash pail. The ache of his bruised and bloodied fist. Merlin had tried to attend to that as well, but Arthur’s harsh glare had stopped him short. He just wanted to be left alone.

A mirthless laugh escaped his throat. Alone. He supposed he’d gotten his wish.

He walked to the bed and sat on the edge, head bowed, shoulders hunched, arms resting on his legs; his hands dangled loosely between his knees. As the blood pooled in his fingertips, he could feel the throbbing, each pulse a discomfort, reminding him of his foolishness in slamming his fist into the wall. He hoped he hadn’t broken anything. 

Though broken bones, unlike other hurts, would heal.

Overtaken by a wave of exhaustion, he slumped sideways and pulled his legs up onto the bed, not bothering to move from the foot, but curling up in a ball where he lay. Even so, Guinevere’s faint scent was still evident as he filled his lungs, flooding his mind with more memories.

She had come to live in the castle after Morgana had arrived. Arthur hadn’t known what to make of Morgana at first, clouds of dark hair, face pale and serious, eyes older than her years. His father had spoken to him, informed him of her parents’ deaths, told him he was depending on Arthur to make her feel welcome. She was Uther’s ward and Arthur was to consider her family.

Arthur took the charge seriously, did his best to befriend the girl, showing her all the castle’s secrets, teaching her everything he knew about life in Camelot. Yet all she did was stare with those large unsettling eyes. He could feel his father’s disappointment as they dined together each evening, knew it was his fault Morgana answered Uther’s questions with quiet monosyllabic responses, her voice dull and flat. 

At night when she’d scream, bolting upright in bed, Arthur would hurry to her chambers and hold her hand, wincing as she’d squeeze, awkwardly patting her back as her body trembled, her eyes staring blindly into space. He’d speak soothing words, even as he tamped his own terror down at the otherworldly tone of her whispers, “I see them, Arthur. I see them,” babbling nonsense about people he’d never heard of and places he’d never been.

Of course later, he’d learned what she meant. He hadn’t understood back then, only thought they were nightmares over her parents’ deaths. When Gaius would arrive with a sleeping draught, Arthur didn’t bother to hide his relief, nor could he deny the guilt he’d feel on mornings after, when she’d appear wan and exhausted, dark circles under those pale green eyes. She seemed to withdraw even more and Uther’s disapproval weighed heavily on Arthur’s young shoulders.

Finally, in desperation, he dragged her outside the castle through the town and sought out the blacksmith’s, remembering a day when the small hand of a little girl eased his own heartache over his mother’s death.

Tom was nowhere to be seen, but the girl was there and looked up from her tasks when they entered the smithy. She flashed a big smile and gave an approximation of a curtsey, saying, “Prince Arthur, I knew you’d return one day.”

Before he could respond, she rushed forward, eyes bright, staring at Morgana. “Who’s this? You must be a princess; you’re so beautiful. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. What’s your name?” Before Morgana could respond, she chattered on, introducing herself, just as she had to Arthur when he had first met her. “I’m Guinevere.”

She reached out her hand to touch Morgana’s long dark hair. Morgana stiffened, but allowed the caress. “Your hair is so beautiful. So soft. But where are the flowers? Princesses always wear flowers in their hair.” She dropped the tresses and stepped backward, putting her hands on her hips and cocking her head, her little pointed chin jutting out. Seeming to come to a decision, she took Morgana’s hand in her own and started pulling her from the smithy. “Come on. I know where we can find some.”

Arthur watched nervously, worrying about Morgana’s reaction, but she followed willingly, letting herself be led through the streets, through the city gates, behind buildings, moving farther away from the castle and through the lower town until they reached a field with wildflowers growing everywhere. Guinevere showed Morgana how to fashion the flowers into chains, splitting the stems and threading them together. Morgana watched in silence and let herself be decorated with blossoms, long strands around her neck and a crown upon her head. Guinevere looked her over, surveying her work with satisfaction.

“That’s better,” she said. “Now will you tell me your name?”

Arthur was surprised when she answered. “Morgana.”

“Princess Morgana. I knew your name would be beautiful too.”

“But I’m not a princess,” Morgana said.

Guinevere scoffed. “Nonsense. Of course you’re a princess; you’re wearing a crown.”

That night at dinner the king asked, “And what did you two get up to today?”

“I took Morgana to meet Guinevere,” Arthur said.

“Guinevere?”

“She took us to a field outside the lower town—”

Arthur realized his mistake before he was even finished speaking.

“You took Morgana to the lower town?” His face was thunderous with rage.

A soft voice interrupted. “She made me a necklace of flowers.” Uther turned to look at Morgana, his expression stunned. “And a crown for my hair,” she continued, the ghost of a smile on her face.

Uther was silent. He leaned forward resting his elbow on the table, chin in his hand, contemplating. After a moment he asked, “Guinevere, you said? Tom the blacksmith’s daughter?”

“Yes, father.”

“Hmm.”

Arthur ate quietly, grateful for the reprieve from what was sure to have been an impressive tirade. He was unsurprised to find, not two days later, Guinevere living in the castle as Morgana’s maid.

The girls were inseparable. Guinevere’s sweet nature and easy chatter caused smiles to bloom more and more frequently on Morgana’s face. The nightmares lessened in frequency and the haunted look disappeared from Morgana’s eyes. Her screams were eventually replaced by laughter.

Arthur remembered how he felt one day, entering Morgana’s chambers and seeing both girls asleep on the bed, curled up like puppies, their two faces practically touching, arms wrapped around the other’s waist.

Staring at his father’s ward, Arthur felt a surge of love and protectiveness for the strange dark haired girl, a fierce need to keep her from further harm. Relief that she seemed happier now and not haunted by terrifying dreams. Shame at his own inadequacy—nothing he did had been able to ease her pain, had come even close to giving her peace the way one afternoon with Guinevere had. Envy at their closeness, that they had each other, while he had no one.

In his chambers, Arthur rolled over onto his back and draped his arm across his eyes. Morgana. He didn’t need to be thinking of her right now, didn’t need to be prodding that old wound, a wound he suspected would always remain raw and unhealed.

Instead he thought of happier memories—the first time he kissed Guinevere, or rather, when she’d kissed him, wishing him luck before he took the field to face off against another of Camelot’s squires in a practice tournament for the not-yet-knights. She and Morgana had giggled at his flushed face while they tied a strip of fabric around his arm, but his eyes caught Guinevere’s and her soft, shy smile set his heart racing.

He thought of other firsts—the first time their kisses had been real, both of them trembling and nervous, but having danced around each other for so long, drawing closer to the moment every day, it seemed as inevitable as the coming tide. The first time their bodies joined, sliding into her wet heat, face buried against her neck. The many times after; they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

“I’m going to marry you one day, and you’ll be my queen,” he had whispered in her ear one afternoon as they lay spent and exhausted, bodies slicked with sweat. She had kissed him, smiling.

“Your father would never allow it.”

“One day I’ll be king,” he had said. “And I’ll be able to do whatever I want. Just you wait and see. I _will_ marry you.”

She had kissed him in response, and then again, and again, and again.

Arthur rolled over onto his stomach and pounded his fist into the mattress, wincing at the fresh shot of pain. Gods, he was a fool. He felt his rage building again and pushed up from the bed, getting to his feet and pacing furiously, barely restraining himself from toppling the table once again and sending the pile of crockery flying. He needed to calm down, to think things through rationally, decide what he was going to do.

But not tonight. He needed a clear head. And he didn’t want to think about what had happened any more tonight. He just wanted to forget. To go back in time before he learned everything he knew now. To have things be the way they were before. 

Impossible wishes, he knew.

He could, however, have peace for a few hours, at the very least. He could ask Gaius for a sleeping draught, descend into peaceful oblivion until the morn. There would be time enough on the morrow to face what this day had wrought. Coming to a decision, he stopped his pacing and moved toward the door. 

When he opened it, a figure leaning against the other side slumped to the floor, a tangle of limbs sprawling everywhere.

“Merlin?”

His manservant blinked in surprise, clearly disoriented from being woken up in such a fashion. He struggled to sit upright.

“Sire?”

“What on earth are you doing?” Arthur asked. “Were you sleeping in the hall?”

Merlin looked up, eyes bleary with sleep. “I didn’t want you to feel that you were alone.”

-o-

Arthur advanced, his sword glinting in the sunlight as it came down hard against his opponent’s shield. He had been relentless all morning, fighting knight after knight during training, wearing them out one after the other, seemingly driven by some unknown fire.

Merlin watched from the sidelines, ready to step in if his prince’s temper led him to doing something he could not take back and would surely later regret. He hadn’t worried until this very moment. Arthur was holding nothing back. Merlin had seen him and Lancelot fight many times before. Even from the start when he had arrived in Camelot—lured by tales of the knights’ bravery and prowess, a younger son from lands afar seeking to better his station in life—they had been evenly matched. During that first tournament, Lancelot had nearly succeeded in unseating Arthur; impressed by the newcomer’s skill, Arthur had persuaded him to stay on. When he proved himself time and again, King Uther had recognized his deeds and loyalty with a knighthood. 

They were much alike, the prince and his knight—both idealists, dreamers. And both exceptionally skilled in battle. On any given day, either might be declared the victor. Today, however, the prince clearly had the edge, even with the multiple opponents he had already defeated. Arthur was like a man possessed, driving Lancelot back time and again. Their usual easy enjoyment was nowhere in evidence; instead, their faces were deadly serious, their movements accompanied by grunts of efforts.

The other knights, like Merlin, were watching intently. There were no jokes or calls of encouragement, no jeering for any miscalculations. The tension was palpable and it was clear to one and all this was no ordinary training exercise.

Leon had tried to end the confrontation a short while earlier. Both Arthur and Lancelot stood panting, trying to catch their breaths after a particularly vigorous clash.

“Sire,” he called out. “Don’t you think that’s enough for today?”

Arthur had begun to move again, circling Lancelot, looking for his next opening.

“We’re not finished here yet,” Arthur said. “This is what training’s about, after all. Pushing ourselves… finding our limits then going beyond them.” He spoke as he moved. “For we never know where that next unexpected attack may come from.”

Lancelot’s eyes shot to Arthur’s. A look of uncertainty crossed his face. And when Arthur next attacked, he faltered, stumbling back. Merlin looked on in horror as Arthur’s blade unerringly aimed for Lancelot’s vulnerable side. He heard the gasps of the men beside him and his hand was already in motion to prevent a tragedy when Arthur, at the last second, diverted his sword, flinging it to the ground. His helmet followed right after, then his gauntlets, landing on the grass in a clank of metal.

“Now we’re finished,” Arthur said, as he stalked off the field, refusing to look in anyone’s direction.

Merlin gathered his equipment then hurried after him, scrambling to catch up. He met Arthur in the armoury where he was struggling to remove his breastplate.

“Here,” Merlin said, after placing the equipment he was carrying on the table and pushing Arthur’s hands away. “Let me help you with that.”

Arthur stood still, staring straight ahead while Merlin worked the fasteners of his armour. They both looked over when someone else entered the room.

“Merlin, leave us for a moment,” Lancelot directed.

“No, stay,” Arthur commanded.

Merlin looked between the two of them, eyes locked on the other. The staring match continued on for long moments in silence, neither of the men breaking it. Making a decision, Merlin said, “I’ll… um… just be right outside,” before scurrying from the room. He didn’t go far, standing right outside the door listening in, ready to intercede if necessary.

“So you know,” Lancelot finally spoke.

“I know.”

Another weighty silence filled the room.

“Arthur, I—”

“I trusted you.” Arthur roared the interruption. “Out of all my men, it’s you I’ve confided in, you I’ve relied on. I’ve thought of you like my brother, yet you betray me.” Arthur’s voice cracked and Merlin heard the sound of something being thrown against the wall.

“Arthur…” Lancelot spoke again, his voice almost as emotional as Arthur’s had been. “I love her.”

“She’s mine,” Arthur roared again.

“And she loves me too.”

“You both betray me.”

“I would never betray you, my liege.”

“You already have done so.”

“No, no. Arthur, listen to me.” His voice was pleading. “I gladly pledged my fealty when I came here. To the king. To Camelot. To you. I’ve seen your heart. You’re a man I’m proud to follow, a man of honour, a just man who will undoubtedly rise to greatness one day. More importantly, you’re also a good man, with a good heart. You inspire your men; you inspire _me_. I would lay down my life for you, sire. But what you’re doing with Gwen is wrong.”

“You dare—”

“Yes, I dare. I _love_ her, Arthur. I love her,” he repeated more softly. “What kind of life can you give her? You can’t marry her. No one else will have her while she’s in your favour.”

“And who’s to say I cannot marry her?” Arthur cut in.

“You think the king would ever allow such a match?”

“One day I will be king.”

Lancelot’s voice was gentle. “When Arthur? In five years? Ten? Twenty? Would you deny her the chance of a family of her own, a husband and children? Or would you get her with child, when you yourself are to be wed one day? What kind of life would that be for her?”

“She loves me; I know she does.”

“She does, Arthur. As do I. She would never deny you anything.”

“And you? If I commanded you to stay away from her, what say you? What would you do?”

Merlin held his breath waiting for Lancelot’s answer.

“Sire… Arthur, do not ask this of me. I beg you.”

“I saw you yesterday, you know. I heard you. Your words were treasonous.”

“Arthur…” Merlin could barely hear the anguished whisper from Lancelot’s mouth. “What will you do?” he asked.

Arthur didn’t answer, but Merlin could hear his footsteps, knew he was pacing furiously.

“What will you do?” Lancelot asked again. “Arthur.”

“I don’t know.” He was practically yelling.

“She is innocent. Her only crime is to love.” 

“And what of your crime?”

“I love her, Arthur.” His words were urgent. “I can give her the kind of life that you cannot. I’m begging you to please consider _her_. If you love her, as I truly believe you do, then let her go. I’ll take care of her. I can make her happy.”

Merlin heard an angry roar from Arthur, a cry of rage and pain, and then a loud sound as the table in the armoury was overturned, the metallic clank as mail and weapons crashed to the ground. He winced at the task now ahead of him, endless polishing and working out of dents, even as he felt for Arthur’s distress. Seconds later Arthur stormed from the room, heading toward the stables.

Lancelot followed shortly after, hurrying to catch up. Merlin grabbed his arm to stop him and Lancelot tried to yank it free.

“Let him go,” Merlin said.

“But Guinevere…” His eyes were wild.

“He will not harm her.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“I am sure. Give him some time.”

Lancelot ran his hand through his hair, face lined with worry, considering his words. 

“He’ll do the right thing,” Merlin said. “It’s Arthur.”

“I hope you’re right.”

-o-

“You there,” Arthur called to the stable boy leading a freshly saddled horse. “Who is that for?” he asked.

“Sir Leon, Your Highness.”

“Fetch him another mount. I’m taking this one.”

“Yes, sire.”

Arthur swung up into the saddle then set off toward the city gates, riding fast and hard. He didn’t stop until the castle was far in the distance. Dismounting, he tied the horse to a nearby tree then stared back at Camelot.

Emotion filled him as his eyes roved over the graceful lines of the castle. The expanse of pale stone gleamed bright against the deep blue sky, the tall towers and turrets like limbs reaching toward the heavens. She was the pride of Camelot, the heart of the kingdom—an indomitable fortress designed to show off prosperity and to repel opposition, a vision of beauty and strength.

A slight breeze ruffled his hair; the sun was warm on his face. An ache filled Arthur’s chest as he surveyed the land, the legacy that would one day be his. He had never shied from his duty. While he did not always agree with Uther’s decisions, especially his unyielding stance against magic users, he admired the stability he had brought during his reign. Camelot thrived; the lands were bountiful, its people protected. Arthur strived to be the kind of man worthy to take over as custodian one day, one whose head was fit to wear the crown. He would die for Camelot, readily and without hesitation; he would sacrifice much to keep her from harm.

Yet, as each sacrifice was required, he was further separated from the kingdom he loved, a man apart. He did not begrudge the hours spent in service to the crown; he had learned to set aside the envy he experienced at the simple freedoms others enjoyed. These prices were small to pay. The older he grew, however, the narrower his choices became. Like a child vowing to stay up all night when he grows older, Arthur held to foolish dreams of ‘when I’m king’.

The display of anger in the armoury was rooted in one simple truth: he knew Lancelot was right.

His shock when he had come upon them the day before was severe, a cut deep and wounding. He watched and listened, unnoticed, as two of the people he held most dear spilled treason from their lips. Their argument seemed as well worn as a polished stone.

“Come away with me. Marry me. We’ll go back to my home. The road will be long, but I can give you the kind of life you deserve. No one need know you were a servant if you return with me as my wife.”

“You know I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“I can’t. I can’t do that to Arthur. He loves me. I’ve known him since we were children. It would destroy him.”

“And what of you? Of me? Is our love not worth fighting for?”

Lancelot’s dark head bent toward Guinevere and their lips found each other’s. Arthur fought back the urge to burst through the door and pull them apart, throw Lancelot across the room and smash a fist into his face. He clenched his hands at his sides. When the kiss ended and they separated, Arthur had to hold back the strangled cry that attempted to escape from his throat. The expression on both their faces was devastating.

“Are _we_ not worth fighting for?” Lancelot asked before kissing her again.

She melted into him, completely surrendering as they gave themselves over to their passion. Arthur would have been moved by the obvious strength of their devotion were it anyone other than Lancelot and Guinevere, and were his own heart not currently breaking.

He turned away, unable to bear watching another second. He leaned against the wall outside the door and closed his eyes.

Lancelot’s voice reached his ears a few moments later. “Gwen, my love, we can’t go on this way.”

“I know. I _know_.” She sounded as if she were crying.

“Come away with me. Please, Gwen.”

“We can’t just leave him. It would break his heart.”

_Too late_ , Arthur thought.

“I love him too, Gwen. I would gladly fight by his side for the remainder of my days, but this is no life for you.”

“He still means to marry me, you know.”

“You know that will never—”

“No,” she cut him off. “I know. It could never be. I may have thought so when I was a girl, but… In time he will come to realize it.” 

“Will he, though?”

“If we just wait…”

“For how long? Six months? A year? Five years? And do what in the meantime? Sneak around as we do now, as if our love was some ugly shameful thing?”

“No… It’s not. Don’t say that.” She was crying harder now.

“Would you have me leave, so your heart is not torn in two?” Lancelot’s distress was clear. “If you asked it of me, I would do so. I will fight for our love. For you, Gwen. But if you wanted me to go, if this is too hard for you, I would do as you ask.”

“No, I don’t want that. I couldn’t bear it.” Her sobs grew louder until they were muffled, and Arthur knew she was pressed against Lancelot’s chest.

“Thank the gods. I couldn’t bear it either. Guinevere, Guinevere.” Her name was like a prayer.

Arthur blinked, eyes stinging. How long had it been going on? He had no idea. Was he really that blind? He understood why Lancelot would fall for Guinevere. She was kind and generous; she attracted everyone with her sweet, gentle nature. Just look at how Morgana… no, he could not think of Morgana now on top of everything else today. 

Of course Lancelot would love Guinevere too. It was hard for Arthur to think of anyone not loving her once they knew her. Even lazy, impertinent Merlin would do anything she asked. And ever since that day Guinevere took Arthur’s hand, she had lodged herself permanently in his heart. As they grew together, discovered the pleasures their bodies could give one another, she had only entrenched herself more firmly in his affections. She had always been a comfort, a joy, a confidant—both lover and friend. He dreamed of having her by his side while he ruled, his love, his queen.

After seeing Guinevere with Lancelot, Arthur knew she had never felt the same. He believed she loved him; that much he doubted not. Finding out she thought his plans to marry her were naught but a dream was a crushing blow. Lancelot, too, was certain such a match would never come to pass. How many others felt the same? Most likely all, he thought bitterly.

As he stared out at Camelot, surveying his future, Arthur finally felt the full weight of the crown; his chest ached as pressure closed in from all sides. Lancelot was right; he knew it, even as he resisted acceptance. His father would never allow him to marry Guinevere. And when he became king, if he were still not attached, would he not also feel duty bound to create an alliance that would be most beneficial for the continued strength of his kingdom?

The minstrels and poets with their talk of love… He was a fool.

And what of Lancelot? He had been willing to commit treason, to forsake his vows of fealty. Vows to Camelot. To Arthur. His betrayal was perhaps even more cutting. The strength of his ideals had attracted Arthur from the start. Lancelot was, among all his knights, the one he most sought to emulate, to be worthy of. When he had heavy decisions to make, it was Lancelot to whom his thoughts often turned, weighing what choice would best meet his approval. Had he misjudged his friend so badly? How was he to respond to these grave transgressions?

Arthur thought back to their recent confrontation, to Lancelot’s entreaty to let Guinevere go, let her have the life he couldn’t provide. Lancelot had been willing to make that very choice. Arthur had listened while Lancelot offered to step aside, if only Gwen required. He himself was willing to do for love what he asked of Arthur now. Was Arthur willing to do the same? Was his love no less strong? 

He shook his head in disbelief. Even now, when his heart lay in tatters and the ground had crumbled beneath his feet, Arthur still aspired to be a man Lancelot would respect, to make the choice that would make him proud.

A bird cried overhead, circling lazily on the wind. Arthur looked up, blaming the blazing light of the sun for the sudden blurring of his eyes. He knew he should get back before someone came looking for him.

The decision had already been made; he knew his course before he even took the field this morn. Mere hours had passed since he rode out this afternoon, yet Arthur felt years older. He mounted his horse and turned toward Camelot.

-o-

“What?” Arthur barked. “If you have something to say, just say it, Merlin.”

He had come back from his ride and left the horse at the stables before going to face Lancelot and Guinevere. In a foul mood on his return to the castle, he had ordered a bath and some food from the kitchens, choosing to dine alone in his room. He was not fit company for anyone. The hot water had done much to ease the ache in his muscles, yet Merlin’s continued hovering, like an anxious nursemaid, had kept the tension from leaving him completely. 

All evening the boy had been on the verge of speaking, gearing up his courage, then obviously changing his mind at the last moment. His behaviour was so far removed from his usual habit of blurting out whatever inane thoughts popped into his mind that Arthur was almost unnerved. He had finally reached his limit.

“It’s just that…”

“Just that what?” Arthur asked, annoyed by his continued hesitancy.

“What you did…”

“What I did…” Arthur repeated, encouragingly.

“Yes. It’s just that…”

“For gods’ sake, Merlin, spit it out. Whatever it is you’ve been trying to say, spit it out and then leave me in peace. You’re driving me mad with this… this…” he waved his hand in some incomprehensible gesture.

“What you did—for Lancelot and Guinevere—well…” He gave a nod of acknowledgment to Arthur’s look of impatience when he hesitated yet again. “It was sort of wonderful,” he blurted in a rush. “Admirable,” he added. “Noble, even.”

Arthur wasn’t surprised that Merlin somehow knew the outcome of his conversation with Lancelot and Guinevere. Inexplicably, the boy always seemed to know everything that went on in Camelot.

Nevertheless, Arthur had no desire to discuss the day’s events with his servant. What he wanted was to nurse his hurt in private, fall into dreamless sleep and forget for a while. Forget the look of relief and gratitude on their faces when Arthur told them they were free to love one another without harm, that they were still welcome in Camelot and he expected them to stay; they would see no further interference from him. Forget the way Guinevere had thrown her arms around his neck in thanks while begging for forgiveness, her slight body so familiar in his arms, her tears dampening his skin. Forget the way his heart had lurched, for one blazing moment, when he thought she was choosing him instead.

But no, she was happy to be free. To be free of _him_. How long had she been humouring him, giving him her body while holding her heart in reserve? He didn’t want to hear how noble he was while he still reeled from their betrayal; his body seemed an insufficient vessel to contain the swirling riot of emotions residing in his gut.

“That will be all for tonight,” he snapped at Merlin. “Please leave me.”

“Arthur…” His tone was contrite. “I didn’t mean—”

“I said that will be all. Goodnight.”

There was a long pause before Merlin spoke again. “Yes, sire.”

As much as Arthur desired to lose himself in sleep, sleep continued to elude him. He tossed and turned, unable to settle. His mind refused to let the recent events go. In frustration he finally threw off the bed clothes, determined to track down a servant to fetch a sleeping draught from Gaius. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought of waking the old man up at this late hour, but he had responsibilities; he couldn’t go without sleep night after night.

When he opened the door, a familiar form slumped in a pile at his feet.

He shook his head, rolling his eyes, and leaned down to shake the man by his shoulder.

“Merlin, wake up.”

Long ghostly fingers rubbed at his eyes as Merlin struggled to sit up. “Arthur?”

“No wonder you’re so useless during the day.” Arthur leaned over and slipped his hands under Merlin’s armpits, hoisting him to his feet. Merlin swayed gently, still not quite awake.

“Come on. I’ll walk you back to Gaius’. I need to get something from him anyway. And then you can get some proper sleep. In your bed, Merlin. Not on the floor. What goes on in that addled head of yours, I wonder.” His fond tone belied his words.

“Nothing important, sire.”

“Now that I can believe.”

-o-

Training over the next few days was tense. Arthur suspected his knights knew of the reason behind his altercation with Lancelot. He couldn’t bear to be thought a fool by all his men, to see their pitying looks. Not in the mood for Gwaine’s jokes, and unwilling to face Lancelot again so soon—especially while holding a weapon in his hand, Arthur reorganized their usual schedule.

“Have Lancelot work with the more seasoned men today—Gwaine, Percival, Bedivere and the others,” he bade Leon. “He’ll lead the training. Not you, though. I want you with me,” he said. “We’ll take on the younger knights. They could use a good workout.” 

Leon gave him a searching look, pausing as if he wanted to say something, but only answered, “Yes, sire,” before walking off to give Lancelot Arthur’s instructions. Lancelot looked over at Arthur as Leon spoke, a troubled expression on his face, but Arthur only looked away. 

What had Lancelot expected, after all? Just because Arthur had chosen to step aside for Guinevere’s sake didn’t mean he had forgiven Lancelot’s betrayal. Indeed, he was more angry than ever before. Survival in battle depended on the trust between the men; knowing someone had your back could be the difference between life and death. Aside from his personal heartache, Arthur grieved for the chinks now existing in Camelot’s armour, the weakening of her most able defence. The Knights of Camelot were known far and wide for their strength and skill. Their reputation was, after all, what had brought Lancelot here to begin with. Arthur had always felt the bond he shared with Lancelot, the kinship between them—the camaraderie, loyalty, and trust—epitomized the very essence of what it meant to be a knight of Camelot. What were they now but an ordinary collection of men, a group of soldiers like any other? What he had regarded before as a cohesive unit, a force nigh unstoppable, now seemed broken beyond repair.

He turned from the field, looking toward the castle, noting the sturdy walls of her perimeter, the majestic rise of her architecture. Was her strength simply an illusion? Did she house unidentified vulnerabilities? Could she be shattered by one well-aimed blow from an unexpected quarter? Arthur felt a chill to his very marrow; a sense of unease crept under his skin. He turned back to the training area, surveying the row of newer knights standing with Leon, eager to spar with the prince. A cloud passed in front of the sun and shadows fell on their bright young faces. For a moment their appearance shifted, the shadows settling over the bones beneath their skin, turning them to corpses. He blinked and the moment passed. Shaking off the image, Arthur joined the men and prepared to teach them all he knew. He hoped it would be enough.

Each night he would return to his rooms, exhausted and sore, and a bath would be waiting for him. As he submerged himself in the water, head back, eyes closed, attempting to relax, he let the heat seep into his tight muscles. Merlin seemed to have recovered from his recent taciturn mood and was back to his old self, complaining about his various chores, chatting away about castle gossip, giving his opinions of the patients who came to see Gaius, not even attempting to hide his disgust at some of their ailments. Really, Arthur wondered why Gaius had taken the boy on to begin with. He seemed to have little aptitude for the healing arts, and even less interest if his commentary was anything to go on.

“Merlin…” Arthur began.

“Shut up?” Merlin asked, finishing for him and not sounding the least bit upset.

Arthur opened his eyes and raised his head, turning to look at the boy. That _had_ been what Arthur was about to say. Habit, really. Merlin simply stared back in expectation, his bright blue eyes wide, waiting for the rest of what he had to say. Arthur realized, however, that he didn’t mind his servant’s prattle. Indeed, the steady stream of words had half held his attention while he soaked; more importantly, it had kept his mind from dwelling on more painful matters.

Letting out a sigh, Arthur leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. “Never mind,” he said.

Silence filled room for only a moment and then Merlin was speaking again, picking right back up where he had left off.

Arthur continued to have his evening meals sent up to his room, but he knew his father would not be pleased with his repeated absences. When he received a summons to meet with the king the following morning, he was not at all surprised.

“Arthur,” his father greeted him, looking up from his breakfast. “I have not seen you these past few days. Is everything going well with the training?”

“Yes, father.”

“Sit,” Uther said, motioning to the seat across from him. 

Arthur nodded and accepted the plate of food which appeared in front of him the moment he was seated. Uther returned to his breakfast. After a few moments he spoke again, not looking up from his meal.

“There is unrest to the east,” Uther said.

“Escetia?”

“Possibly. The reports are unclear.”

“What sorts of reports?”

“Rumours Cenred is consorting with the Druids.”

Chewing more slowly, Arthur turned the information over in his head.

“Do you think they’re a threat?”

“He’s consorting with sorcerers,” Uther snapped. “Of course they’re a threat.”

Arthur studied Uther, who continued to eat, as if completely unaware of his son’s scrutiny. The strong jaw was as familiar as Arthur’s own, as was the aristocratic nose. His hair, which had once been dark, was now shot with grey. Arthur’s own light colouring—his fair hair and blue eyes—had come from his mother. Or so he’d been told; she had died shortly after he was born. Uther was still a handsome man, but he looked weary. The lines on his face were deeper, his eyes dull as cold steel; he rarely smiled. 

He hadn’t been the same since Morgana’s betrayal. Never a warm man, Uther became even more closed off after she was gone. Arthur remembered the jealousy he’d felt when he watched his father with his young ward. He seemed to derive such joy from her company, even when they fought, as they often did, especially during her teenage years. As she grew older and began to blossom into a young woman, she was his father’s favourite companion. Arthur had never received such affectionate smiles, had fought all his life for his father’s approval. Always trying to do what’s right, to make his father proud, Arthur was lucky to get a “well done,” perhaps even a clap on the shoulder. Yet Morgana could defy him at every turn, and with one vivacious smile had his father eating out of her hand, praising her for her fighting spirit and “keeping him on his toes.”

Uther doted on the girl. When he had woken from a sound sleep, her knife piercing his chest, it wasn’t the wound or loss of blood that almost killed him; it was his broken heart. She had fled into the night in wake of her failed assassination attempt and hadn’t been seen nor heard from since. Luckily, Morgana’s strength wasn’t sufficient for the blade to do more damage that it had. Uther’s rib had stopped its progression before it could reach any vital organs. Regardless, the strike had been deep and had, in a way, hit its mark; Uther had never fully recovered from the attack.

Arthur, likewise, had been changed from that night forward. Although he had been jealous of his father’s attentions, he hadn’t begrudged Morgana them. He loved her like a sister, even if he didn’t understand her and still found her company unsettling. She was complex and confusing, and with her incomparable beauty, seemed to have the entire world worshipping at her feet. With Morgana, however, there was always so much more going on under the surface. He berated himself for not realizing the truth sooner.

Convinced Morgana had been bewitched, Uther’s vendetta against sorcery reached new heights. Executions, which before had occurred perhaps once a fortnight, now increased in number to several a week. If any rumour of sorcery reached the king’s ears, soldiers were immediately dispatched to capture the accused. Arthur remembered those dark months, the grim cast to each day, the moment of clarity he experienced as he watched the body of a young boy burn.

Just weeks prior at an execution quite similar to that one, Morgana had wept in his arms.

“She’s just a girl,” Morgana had choked out, sobs wracking her slender form. “She’s just a girl.”

Suddenly, Morgana’s nightmares held new meaning; the attack against Uther became crystal clear. He knew with a certainty that left zero room for doubt: Morgana had magic.

Arthur never mentioned his discovery to the king. He was convinced his father wouldn’t believe him anyway. And eventually the brutal scourge had eased, though Uther’s stance toward magic had not. Time moved forward.

So many secrets, Arthur thought. Guilt still ate at him over his failure to protect Morgana, his inability to see what was right before him all that time. How she must have hated them. Enough to try and murder Uther in his sleep.

Arthur brought his attention back to the matter at hand, addressing his father.

“I’ll gather some men and head out today to investigate,” he said.

“Very well then.”

-o-

Arthur pulled his horse up short. “Look. There, up ahead,” he said to Gwaine who had ridden up beside him.

“Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Beyond those trees,” Arthur said, pointing a gloved hand toward the northwest.

“Ah, well spotted. Is that the remains of a camp?”

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell from here. Come on, we’ll investigate.”

They began moving again, picking their way through the trees, the rest of the men following behind. As they approached the well-hidden clearing, it became obvious this was once a thriving settlement, albeit temporary in nature, and a sizeable one at that. Arthur felt ice in his veins at what was left of it now.

The men were silent as they surveyed the scene. Broken crockery, tents with large gashes down the sides, the ground stained with blood. He couldn’t help but be aware of the mounds of freshly turned dirt, one after another, at the far end of the clearing. Arthur dismounted from his horse and walked among the ruins, kicking at random items with his boot, shifting through the rubble. Near the remains of a fire ring, he went down on one knee, picking an item off the ground and turning it over in his hands. It was a child’s toy—a crudely made doll—the fabric covered in blood. His stomach roiled and he felt as if he might be sick.

Arthur heard someone approaching from behind; a hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“This was slaughter,” Arthur said, looking up from the toy and staring ahead at what was left of the camp. His mind’s eye could see the settlement as it must have been before, a place full of activity with food cooking over the fire, people milling about—working, joking—children playing nearby. Now it was lifeless as a tomb.

“Druids,” said a voice behind him. “They were druids, sire.”

Arthur was at once surprised and not surprised to realize who had joined him as he recognized Merlin’s voice. His heart briefly seized at the words his manservant spoke. Arthur had wondered about Morgana’s whereabouts countless times over the years; he always imaged that she may have found refuge with the druids. They were known to be a peaceful people and friendly toward magic. He was somewhat surprised to find one of their settlements within Camelot’s borders, but they had not been the target of Uther’s wrath for quite some time. He supposed they must have felt it safe to return to their previous homes. And even if Morgana had found a place with the druids, Arthur consoled himself, the chances that she had been here, in this very camp, were slim.

“How can you know?” Arthur asked.

“Ealdor, my home, is not too far from here. We often traded with the druids. I recognize their workmanship.”

Arthur nodded, taking him at his word.

Who would have dared decimate these people, Arthur wondered? If this were years prior, Uther may well have been responsible; he had little mercy those early days after Morgana’s disappearance. But if the king had resumed attacks on the druids, Arthur would surely have known. Not bandits either, he thought, looking at the few weapons and other valuable items scattered about. Bandits would never have left behind anything that could possibly be sold. Who, then?

A scrap of red at the periphery of his vision caught his attention. Arthur set down the doll and stood, walking over to the bright object. On first examination, it looked to be one of Camelot’s own banners; the red material was embroidered with a dragon of gold. But the colour was off and the emblem was crude—nothing like Camelot’s own majestic beast. A shoddy approximation, at best. From a distance, it would pass easily enough.

The reception he and his men had received at the last village they had passed through now made more sense. When Arthur and his knights rode into town, instead of the usual reception they had enjoyed in the past—shops and townsfolk eager to earn coin and favour—they were reluctantly offered accommodations and provisions. Mothers had ushered their children into their homes and out of sight. Arthur had wondered about the tense atmosphere, but attributed it to the unrest Uther spoke of. The villagers had all been tightlipped, however. Arthur was unable to get any information from them about the nature of their unease. Now, he realized they had all been afraid. Of them.

Lancelot, Gwaine and Merlin had joined him while he studied the false banner.

“Do you think this is Cenred’s work?” Gwaine asked.

“I don’t know,” Arthur answered. “Would Cenred really be so bold as to slaughter women and children, both? On Camelot’s own soil? Such a move would be an act of war.”

“Our scouts have reported no amassing of force in Escetia,” Lancelot said. “If they intend war, they seem ill prepared to fight one.”

“Perhaps not yet. Anyway, we have no proof this is Cenred’s work. I’m not yet sure what to make of this. I think it’s time we return to Camelot. I need to report this news to my father.”

Arthur folded the scrap of material and walked toward his mount, tucking the banner safely away in his bag. He bowed his head in thought for a moment, then nodded, as if coming to a decision.

“Merlin,” he said, looking over to his manservant who had followed closely behind. “How would you like to visit your mother?”

-o-

“You there,” Arthur said to a servant he passed in the corridor.

“Yes, sire?”

“Fetch me some wine and bring it to my chambers.”

“Right away, my lord.”

Arthur paced as he waited for the servant to arrive. Drowning his troubles in drink wasn’t perhaps the smartest decision he could make, but right now, he simply didn’t care. He had heard news of Lancelot and Merlin’s return to Camelot earlier in the day and arrived to greet them just in time to see Guinevere fling herself into Lancelot’s arms, kissing him as if he had been gone for months rather than a few weeks.

It had been hard enough having Lancelot with him while they investigated the cause of the unrest, yet Uther had insisted, arguing that Lancelot had travelled more widely than the rest of the knights and could pick up important details the others might otherwise miss. When Arthur had tried to convince the king Lancelot’s time would be better spent training the younger knights in their absence, Uther rejected the idea immediately, stating Sir Leon could easily be substituted for the task.

Arthur knew his father was right, and in truth his arguments had been made half-heartedly, but the strain of travelling together, trying to act as if there was no tension between them, had taken its toll. So when they made ready to return to Camelot after coming across the decimated druid settlement, Arthur jumped at the chance to have Lancelot accompany Merlin to his mother’s village. The decision had a three-fold advantage: Arthur could gain some relief from the constant reminder of Lancelot and Gwen’s perfidy; the two men could find out from Hunith and the other residents of Ealdor any rumours regarding this heinous attack; the visit would make Merlin happy. 

The latter was reason enough for the decision. Arthur was fond of the boy; he imagined it would have been difficult for Merlin to come so close to his former home and go no farther. Arthur couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Hunith as well, were she to find out how near they’d travelled. He’d grown fond of her on his several previous visits to Ealdor. Having never known his own mother, Hunith’s treatment of him, as if he were her own son and not the visiting prince, would always be something he’d treasure.

Nothing had prepared Arthur for his reaction on their return. He’d not anticipated the acute pain he’d feel watching the lovers reunite; indeed, it was as if he were experiencing their betrayal anew. Then he’d had to sit with his father while Lancelot reported what he’d learned—nothing significant beyond what they’d already discovered—knowing all the while the reason for the flush on the knight’s cheeks and the swelling of his lips. White hot jealousy burned like an ember in Arthur’s gut.

To add insult to injury, Uther had asked him to stay once Lancelot departed. Then he’d been informed the daughter of one of his father’s friends would be coming to court to be presented as a possible wife. Arthur’s heart lay scattered in pieces; he still longed for Guinevere. How could he possibly think about marriage to anyone else?

A knock at the door announced the servant’s arrival. Arthur gestured him in, then motioned for him to leave the wine on the table. He drank the first goblet quickly, undiluted, wanting only to feel the spirits numb his pain. By the third cup—or was it his fourth—his thoughts, as often happened when he took to drink, morosely turned to Morgana. He castigated himself anew at his failure to understand, to prevent that dreadful night and her subsequent departure.

“Never enough,” he mumbled, taking another large sip of wine. “Never ever enough.”

“What’s that?” 

Arthur looked up, bleary eyed, and saw Merlin tending the fire.

“What are you doing here? Weren’t you going to see Gaius?”

“I already saw Gaius. That’s all taken care of. I’m here to help you ready for bed.”

“Bed?” Arthur asked, incredulously. “Isn’t it a little early for bed? I haven’t even eaten my supper.”

“Yes, that much is obvious,” Merlin muttered under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“You should drink some water.” Merlin tried to remove the goblet from Arthur’s hand, pushing some water toward him at the same time. Arthur refused to let go.

“No, Merlin. I intend to get drunk tonight.”

“I don’t think you’ll need much effort there, sire.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He sighed and nudged the water toward Arthur again. “You really should drink some water. Your head is going to feel this tomorrow.” 

“Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I want to feel it tomorrow. Better than feeling…” he trailed off, rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

Merlin watched him quietly then pushed a plate of food in front of him. Where did that even come from, Arthur wondered? “…least have something to eat.” Arthur looked at Merlin realizing he was speaking.

“What?”

“You need to eat something, Arthur. Come on, now. At least some bread.” He nudged the plate even closer.

“All _right_ ,” Arthur said, exasperated. “Nag, nag, nag. You’re worse than a woman, Merlin.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes, but seemed satisfied when Arthur tore off a chunk of the bread and started eating.

After more food had made its way into Arthur’s stomach, Merlin reached for his wine again, trying to remove it from his hand. Arthur gripped the cup with both hands, shoving Merlin away, and brought it close to his chest. “You can’t have this, I _told_ you.”

Merlin rolled his eyes again. Arthur felt he really should speak to his manservant about his insubordination.

“Let me help you get changed. Then you can go back to your…” He waved his hand in the direction of the wine. “Drinking yourself stupid.”

“Fine.”

Arthur placed the cup on the table and watched Merlin warily as he approached.

“Oh, for... nevermind,” Merlin said. “Here. Lift your arms.”

Arthur did as he asked, marvelling at how heavy they felt. It must be his muscles. He flexed, admiring his bicep. Yes, he was very strong.

Merlin was laughing, struggling to get his shirt over his head.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, sire,” Merlin said, wiping the smile from his face.

“Would you please get on with it, then?”

“Yes, sire.”

After more tugging, and a bit of yelling, Arthur was dressed in his night shirt. The material was soft against his skin. This had been an excellent idea. He was glad he thought of it. 

“Now your trousers,” Merlin said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stand for this one. If you can,” he added under his breath.

Arthur was incensed. How dare Merlin impugn his ability to function? He was the Prince of Camelot.

“Of course I can stand, Merlin,” he said, pushing away from the table and getting to his feet. The room spun. He reached out wildly and grabbed the first solid thing his hand landed on.

“I’ve got you,” Merlin said, removing the hand clutching his wrist and bringing it to his shoulder, winding it around his neck. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“You promised,” Arthur complained as he let himself be led across the room. “You said if I changed my clothing, I could have my wine back.”

“Right,” Merlin said, depositing Arthur on the edge of the bed. “So I did. But you still have your trousers on.”

“Details, details,” Arthur said. But he lay back, pulled up his night shirt and worked at the tie at his waist, frowning when, after several minutes, the laces seemed to only grow tighter.

“For gods’ sake,” Merlin said, pushing his hands away. “Let me.” After only a moment Arthur felt the tie loosen and trouser being pulled down his legs. He shifted his hips up in an attempt to help, but somehow only succeeded in getting the legs tangled on his feet.

“How is it possible for someone to be so incompetent at _everything_?” he asked, exasperated.

“Would you… hold still,” Merlin snapped, ignoring him, finally working Arthur’s feet free. 

“ _Finally_. Are you quite finished?” Arthur asked.

“Yes. All done. You can go back to your… excessive drinking.”

“Thank you.” The bed was comfortable. Maybe he’d just shut his eyes for a few. He wasn’t sure he felt like walking across the room again either. 

“Merlin, fetch me my cup.”

Arthur heard a huff, then, “I should have seen that one coming.” But then he heard movement and a moment later the sound of drink being poured. Good man, Arthur thought.

“Here you are, sire.”

Arthur opened his eyes and saw Merlin standing in front of him, holding out his cup, an eyebrow raised, eerily reminiscent of Gaius. He struggled to sit up, then took the cup, staring defiantly back at Merlin. Eyes locked on his servant’s, he brought the cup to his mouth and took a sip, then promptly spit its contents everywhere.

“This is water!”

“Yes, well, you didn’t specify.”

Arthur spluttered. “I didn’t specify? Did I not say I wanted to get drunk tonight?”

“I think you can cross that item off your list.”

“Merlin,” Arthur bellowed.

“Fine. Fine. Give me the cup. I’ll get you your wine. But tomorrow when your head is splitting open and you’re sicking up in front of your knights, don’t say I didn’t try and stop you.”

“Gods. All _right_. I’ll drink the water. If only to get you to shut up.”

Merlin regarded Arthur with great seriousness. “Thank you, sire.”

“Hrmph,” Arthur said as he swallowed the water down. When he was done, he handed the cup back to Merlin.

“I’ll get you your wine now.”

What was the point? Arthur thought. There wasn’t enough wine in the world to make him forget his hurt. His earlier mood returned with a vengeance and he leaned back on the bed, covering his face with his arm, feeling his throat close and an embarrassing wetness forming at the corner of his eyes. 

He took a deep breath trying to regain his composure then said, “No, don’t. I’ve had enough.”

Enough. That was something he would never be. Never enough for any of them. “Not enough,” he said, repeating out loud his thoughts from earlier. “Why am I never enough?” He heard a hideous sound escape his mouth and wetness spill down the sides of his face. Please, gods, let him not remember any of this in the morning.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was soft, hesitant.

“Leave me. I require nothing else this evening.”

The mattress dipped next to him as Merlin sat on the edge of bed.

“Gods, Merlin. Do you never do as you’re told?” His laugh caught on another sob. He didn’t remove his arm from his face.

“Never enough for what, Arthur?” Merlin asked.

“For any of them.” Arthur’s answer was the cry of a wild beast. He continued on, pouring out his heartache. “For Morgana. I tried, Merlin. I really did. And yet she left and would likely just as soon see me dead. If I had known, I would have… I would have done anything to help her. But she never even gave me a chance.”

He didn’t even try to stop the tears now; his words were punctuated with hiccoughing breaths. “And Lancelot, my brother in all but blood. His vow of fealty proved all too easy to break. How am I to command when I’m not even enough for my best of knights?”

Rubbing his sleeve across his face, wiping the wetness away, he spoke again. “And of course, now Guinevere. I’ve never been enough for her and I was completely oblivious. Even the love of a prince isn’t good enough for a servant girl. What must I do?”

“Arthur,” Merlin cut in. “I don’t think you—”

“If you ask my father, there’s probably nothing I _can_ do. I’ll never measure up, according to him. I’m a constant disappointment. I can see it in his eyes every time he speaks to me.”

“That’s not true. Your father loves you. He’s incredibly proud of you.”

“He’d rather have her.”

“Arthur—”

“I meant my mother, but Morgana too. He always preferred her to me.”

“Arthur—”

“Don’t bother to deny it. We both know it’s true.”

“ _Arthur_.” Merlin fitted his hand around Arthur’s wrist and squeezed, trying to halt the flow of words from his lips. “Stop. Please. Just stop it. None of that is true. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ll feel differently in the morning.”

Arthur started to speak again and Merlin squeezed harder. The words died on his lips.

“Listen to me. Arthur. You’re a good man, and one day you’re going to be a great king. You are enough. And you’ll be enough.” The next squeeze was gentle. “You’ve always been enough for me.”

Arthur pulled his arm free and rubbed his face. He leaned up on his elbows to look at Merlin and laughed. “That’s nice of you to say, Merlin, but I meant enough to the people who matter.”

He couldn’t miss the flash of hurt that crossed Merlin’s face. Suddenly, he felt a lot less drunk; his face heated with shame. Merlin stood and turned away from the bed, so Arthur couldn’t read his expression.

“Wait. I didn’t mean—”

“I’ll just clean up here and let you get your rest, sire,” Merlin said.

Arthur reached out to grab the tail of his shirt as he started to walk away. “Wait, wait. Come back, Merlin.” Merlin just stood there, facing away.

Merlin’s voice was low when he spoke again. “I may just be a servant, but I would lay down my life for you, sire.”

Arthur dropped the hem of his shirt. He leaned his elbow on his knees and placed his head in his hands. “I know. I _know_ , Merlin.” And he did know. That was how Merlin had come into his service, after all. When he’d voluntarily drank from a poisoned cup that had been intended for Arthur. Uther was so impressed by his loyalty, he’d promoted Merlin to Arthur’s personal manservant. “I’m drunk. Completely stinking drunk. I have no idea what I’m saying.”

When Merlin still didn’t move or respond, Arthur added, “I’m sorry, Merlin. I didn’t mean that.”

Merlin’s feet moved, but instead of walking away, they began to turn back in his direction. Arthur lifted his head up, and although the hurt he had inflicted was still evident, he was overwhelmed with relief to see a smile on his servant’s face and shining blue eyes staring down at him.

“You must be drunk if you’re actually apologizing.”

-o-

As predicted, Arthur was sick in the morning and his head felt as if a blacksmith’s hammer was unrelentingly pounding on the inside of his skull. Merlin was uncharacteristically quiet as he readied Arthur for the day. At first Arthur thought his servant was being considerate of his diminished physical state, then the events of the prior evening came rushing back. Overcome by embarrassment knowing Merlin had witnessed his emotional breakdown, Arthur was even more short with him than usual, complaining about the breakfast, snapping at him to hurry up with things, insulting his skills and abilities. Instead of parrying with an insult of his own or a witty retort, Merlin grew even more quiet and he seemed even more clumsy than usual.

It wasn’t until later that Arthur remembered the cruel words he had spoken before falling asleep, and his shame was even greater than it had been the prior evening. He channelled his emotions into the training, sparring hard with the knights, sweating the spirits out of his system, working his body to the state of exhaustion, hoping he’d sink immediately into the oblivion of sleep later that night.

When Merlin met him in the armoury afterward and began to help him with his equipment, Arthur, in his own clumsy way, tried to make up for his earlier boorish behaviour.

“Once you’re through here, why don’t you check if Gaius could use your help with anything? I’ll have no need of your services this evening.”

Merlin looked up in surprise and his fingers fumbled at the ties of Arthur’s gambeson. He brought his attention quickly back to his task, but not fast enough for Arthur to miss the look of hurt that flashed across Merlin’s face, the same look he had caused last night with his thoughtless words. What in the world had he done now, Arthur wondered? He was trying to give Merlin the evening off. 

Maybe an evening wasn’t sufficient to convey his remorse. 

“I’ll have no need of you tomorrow as well. Don’t bother showing up in the morning.”

There. That should be clear.

Only, watching Merlin’s reaction, Arthur saw his servant’s face go white—if that was even possible, his skin was already so pale—and, were his hands shaking?

“Who will take care of your armour after training?” Merlin asked.

“I’ll have one of the squires attend to it.”

“But… that’s my job. I prefer to take care of it myself.”

“What does it matter?” Arthur snapped. “You’re not the only one capable of polishing armour, you know.” Why was Merlin making this so difficult?

“No, I know,” Merlin whispered.

He finished his tasks in silence, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. When he was done, he asked, eyes downcast, “Will that be all, sire?”

Arthur was at a loss. Somehow things had gone terribly wrong, but he wasn’t sure why and he had no idea how to rectify the problem. Or, moreover, what specifically the problem was. He refused to consider that he would not be able to make up for his cutting remarks. Merlin would forgive him; he had to. He’d give him the entire week off, if he thought that would help. “That will be all.”

His eyes followed Merlin’s figure as he departed without another look or word. A new heaviness weighted in Arthur’s chest.

-o-

The days blurred together. Arthur threw himself even harder into training, determined his knights would be ready in the event of an attack. Rumours continued to filter in from the east and another druid camp had been found, decimated in the same manner as the first. The perpetrators of the attacks were still unknown, though Arthur believed Cenred was somehow involved. He couldn’t take his suspicions to the king with no proof, however, no matter how strong his instincts were on the matter. His instincts, after all, had proved less than trustworthy lately.

After months of avoiding each other and speaking only through a veneer of politeness, he and Lancelot had eventually settled back into patterns of old. Arthur confided in him his suspicions about Cenred and used him once again as a sounding board. He had begun to rely more on the other knights, especially Leon, during their rift, but it felt good to share his concerns and receive valuable advice again from his most able knight. Their former closeness, however, was a thing of the past. The betrayal was too fresh in Arthur’s mind; the hurt too deep. 

Likewise, his heartbreak over Guinevere was a wound slow to heal. He tried to put her out of his mind, but she had lodged herself deep in his heart long, long ago. Her presence there was not easy to excise. When he’d take himself in hand late at night, alone in his bed, her dark eyes were the ones he pictured, her soft skin and sweet taste. Her yielding flesh filled his mind as he spilled over his fist, gasping her name in the darkness. He had tried to replace her in his thoughts with other women, but she always slipped through his mental defences, her smiles more effective than a battering ram, until he simply gave in, wanting her whatever way he could have her, even if only in his fantasies. Afterwards he’d feel shameful and weak, wanting her so desperately while she yearned for another. 

The evenings were the loneliest. No matter how hard he pushed himself, how tired he was at the end of the day, there was still that stretch of time after bathing and supper before he could mercifully lose himself in sleep. Arthur had never realized how much he enjoyed Merlin’s idle chatter and gossip until his silence replaced it. He missed Merlin’s overly familiar attitude, his cheeky insults. He missed the casual touches when Merlin helped him dress. Before, Merlin’s fingers tended to linger on his skin; he’d smooth the fabric over Arthur’s shoulders, or fuss with his laces and ties. Now Merlin was all business, unnervingly efficient, and he didn’t touch Arthur unless there was absolutely no possible way to avoid it. Knowing the blame for this loss could be laid firmly at his own feet did not diminish the ache Arthur felt over yet another unfavourable change in his closest relationships. He had tried to apologize to Merlin, to find ways to make it up to him, but his servant remained distant. Some words, Arthur realized with a heavy heart, could not be made unspoken.

Shivering against the chill in the air, Arthur burrowed deeper under the blankets. Merlin had started a fire before he retired, and it gave off some heat, but it was obvious winter was here to stay. He wondered if Merlin had a warm enough blanket in his room back at Gaius’; the boy was skin and bones, not an ounce of body fat on him to help keep him warm. Probably not, he suspected. Arthur resolved to arrange delivery of one, although knowing the foolish boy, he’d probably give it to Gaius to use. Two, then, one for each of them.

Feeling satisfied with his decision—there was no reason to stop trying to be kinder to Merlin even if his actions so far had little effect on the boy—Arthur rolled over onto his side, pulling the covers under his chin. At least Merlin had stopped that brainless habit of sleeping outside in the corridor, he thought. 

As he lay there waiting for sleep to steal his thoughts away, Arthur grew increasingly agitated. He couldn’t get the thought of Merlin, shivering and cold on the hard stone floor, out of his mind. He’d only assumed Merlin had gone back to sleeping in his room at Gaius’, but how could he know for certain? He hadn’t needed to leave his chambers in the evening for quite some time, the extra training having tired him enough to remove the need for a sleeping draught. Finally, knowing he would get no rest until he assured himself Merlin wasn’t waiting on the other side of the door, Arthur threw the covers off, dragged himself from his warm comfortable bed and rolled his eyes as he made his way across the room.

When the familiar long limbs spilled into the room as the door swung wide, Arthur wasn’t sure what he felt—exasperation, to be sure, anger, and an unexpected tenderness, that Merlin would still sit vigil, unwaveringly loyal, despite his personal feelings for Arthur. What was he going to do with this boy?

“Gods Merlin,” Arthur said as his servant sleepily blinked up at him, teeth chattering, limbs quivering from the cold. “You haven’t the sense given a goat.” He hauled him to his feet and pulled him into his chambers, shutting the door against the chill.

“If you’re going to insist on… whatever it is you think you’re doing, at least come in out of the cold. You can sleep by the fire.” He motioned to the thick carpet covering the stone floor in front of the hearth. As Merlin stood staring longingly at the orange flames, Arthur strode to his bed and pulled the thickest, warmest blanket from the pile—it was soft, fur lined and plush. He threw it at Merlin’s head. “Here. You can use this.” 

Merlin caught it automatically, and held it in his hands, staring at Arthur. Arthur shook his head. “Well, go on. Lie down and get some sleep.” He watched as Merlin lowered himself on the rug, curled his long legs up and tucked the blanket around him. When he was satisfied Merlin was settled and comfortable, Arthur climbed back into bed, arranging his own covers over his body. He wasn’t quite as snug as he had been before giving Merlin his best blanket, but when a quiet, “Goodnight, Arthur,” reached his ears, he felt warmer than he had in weeks.

-o-

Arthur stretched, the ache in his muscles from the prior day’s training a low burn, but he felt more rested than he had in ages. He pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wondering why Merlin hadn’t woken him up yet this morn. When he spied the lump of fur in front of the fireplace, a mess of tangled black hair peeking out from one end, he remembered the events of the previous evening—finding Merlin out in the hall and forcing him to come inside to sleep in the warmth. He shook his head at his ridiculous manservant. What had he been thinking?

Walking over to the figure wrapped tightly in the fur, Arthur stared down at the sleeping boy. He was curled in a ball, his knees bent up toward his chest, and his hands were formed loosely into fists beneath his chin. His lashes were a thick sooty sweep across his cheeks and his lips, pink and full and delicately curved, were slightly parted. He looked so young. Fragile. Arthur had the urge to let him sleep; he obviously needed it, as he hadn’t even stirred when Arthur came near. Pushing aside the impulse, he knelt by the boy and gave his shoulder a shake. “Merlin, it’s morning. Time to wake up.” He was tempted to use one of the absurd greetings Merlin used to call to him, before things had become so strained—“up and at ‘em, lazy daisy” or “shake a leg, let’s have you”—but would have felt foolish if Merlin responded with the quiet efficiency he had of late.

When Arthur’s attempts to wake him produced nothing more than a snuffling groan and for the ball that was Merlin to burrow even deeper under the blanket, he gave another, harder shake. “Merlin,” he said, louder than before. “Wake up.”

This time the ball seemed to unwind, like a cat stretching lazily, and the long lashes fluttered open. Deep blue eyes stared up into Arthur’s own.

That lush mouth curled up into a soft sweet smile and Merlin’s hand emerged from the blanket, long fingers reaching to trace the side of Arthur’s cheek, pushing the hair back away from his face. “Arthur,” he breathed on a sigh.

Arthur froze at the gentle touch; his heart stopped for a moment, then pounded furiously in his chest. It had been so long since anyone had touched him with anything resembling tenderness. He could tell the second Merlin realized where he was, what he was doing. The shutters started to fall as his expression shifted into wariness; he snatched his hand away. Arthur was desperate to capture the moment, to keep that look on Merlin’s face—one of complete heartfelt devotion, as if Arthur was everything he could ever wish for. Arthur grabbed Merlin’s wrist, the bones delicate beneath his grip, and brought his hand back to his face, spreading his fingers across his cheek and holding them there against his skin. His own hand was trembling. He had no idea what he was doing, only that he couldn’t lose this, couldn’t have Merlin take it away again so soon. A small crease appeared on Merlin’s brow and his lips moved as if he would speak. Desperate to keep the spell from being broken, acting on instinct with barely a thought, Arthur stopped the words Merlin would speak with his lips, surging down and capturing his mouth in a kiss.

This time it was Merlin who froze, his body stiffening and his breath gasping. Yearning for the return of the boy who had looked at him moments ago with such love and affection, Arthur deepened the kiss, pressing his lips more firmly against Merlin’s, a small entreating noise escaping from his throat. When Arthur’s tongue probed between his lips, licking into his mouth, Merlin let out a jagged moan, his body arching into Arthur’s, the hand on his cheek sliding to his hair, gripping it in his fist. The sharp tug seemed to loose something inside Arthur and he growled, biting down on Merlin’s lip and tugging him close as Arthur lowered himself to the ground. He pushed at the blanket separating them and grabbed at Merlin’s bony hip, pulling him over on top of him.

As the boy’s body settled against him, draped over his chest, Arthur could feel his long legs tangled with his own, his sex, morning stiff, pressing into his thigh. Merlin whimpered and tried to pull away, lifting his hips, but Arthur growled again, bending his knee to press his thigh into Merlin’s erection, his hand sliding from his hip to grip the flesh of his buttock and hold him near.

Another ragged moan escaped from his gorgeous lips and Arthur caught it with his mouth, enthralled at the responses coming from the boy. His dark eyelashes fluttered; his hips rocked against Arthur’s thigh; his hands clutched at the fabric of Arthur’s night shirt, clawing and grasping without any coordination. Arthur mouthed at his jaw, licked a line up the long column of his neck, sucked gently at his skin and brought his lips back to swallow the heady noises coming from Merlin’s throat, frantic whimpers and quiet gasping moans.

Arthur marvelled at the beauty of this boy, falling completely apart in his arms, his breathing ragged, body practically shaking as he rubbed his hard length against Arthur’s muscular thigh. Arthur’s hands remained busy, urging the boy to chase his release, slipping under the waistband of his pants to knead the rounded flesh of his arse. With his face buried in Merlin’s throat, he could feel the rapid beat of Merlin’s pulse. Nosing his way up to the soft patch of skin behind his ear, he slipped a finger in the crease between the mounds of his buttocks, biting down hard on his neck. He chased the bite with his tongue, licking soothing strokes across his flesh, holding Merlin tightly as he shuddered and jerked, sob like cries wrung from his lips, his prick spasming against Arthur’s thigh, staining it with wetness.

Arthur’s own breathing was harsh and ragged. Aroused beyond belief, his entire body was coiled with tension; his skin felt like it was on fire. As soon as Merlin’s trembling eased, Arthur rolled him off enough so that he could reach his own erection. Burying his face in Merlin’s neck, Arthur stripped his cock with quick agile strokes, panting against the boy’s skin, mouthing artlessly with urgent lips, until he spilled over his fist with a low groan. He lay there, heart racing, catching his breath. Then he rolled over onto his back and used his night shirt to wipe his hand clean of his release. 

When he had recovered, Arthur leaned up on his elbows to look at Merlin. The boy was curled on his side, facing away from Arthur, his head buried in his hands. Arthur felt a pang of something uncomfortable in his gut. He reached over to touch Merlin’s shoulder, and felt his stomach drop when Merlin flinched, seeming to curl ever further in on himself. A flush stained Merlin’s cheeks and Arthur could see it spreading down his neck and up his face until even the tips of his ears had turned a bright red. He wanted to tell Merlin he was beautiful, to say thank you, to reassure him somehow, but he couldn’t help but feel weighted by guilt, as if he’d taken advantage of Merlin in his sleep-blurred state. Clearly, the boy didn’t want anything to do with him now he was fully awake.

Arthur sighed and removed his hand from Merlin’s shoulder, rubbing his fingers over his eyes, feeling confused and uncertain. Then he rose and prepared himself for the day. Merlin hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor and Arthur ached to take him in his arms to apologize. Instead, he said, “I’ll see you after training,” before leaving the room. He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment.

-o-

If Arthur had thought things were strained between him and Merlin before, there was no comparison to how tense they were now. Prior to that morning, Merlin avoided touching him, performing his duties involving Arthur’s person with quick efficient dispatch. Now, he couldn’t even bear to look at Arthur.

Arthur had tried to speak to him that afternoon, when Merlin had shown up in the armoury at the end of training. Still troubled by guilt for taking pleasure with his servant before he was even fully awake, Arthur wanted to address the issue head on, clear up his lingering uncertainty. Merlin had responding willingly, enthusiastically even. He had seemed to enjoy their physical pleasure, to _want_ Arthur. Yet afterwards, he couldn’t even bear for Arthur to touch him.

Arthur would never bed a servant who was unwilling, but after Guinevere, something Lancelot had said during their confrontation had stuck with him, and he wondered how willing a servant could actually be. Who, after all, would refuse the prince? As Lancelot said, Guinevere would never deny him anything, even as her heart apparently belonged to another. Did Merlin only acquiesce because of who Arthur was? Did Arthur imagine the expression on his face, the one he wore when he first awoke?

Clearing his throat nervously, Arthur spoke as Merlin worked to remove his hauberk. “Merlin,” he began, “about this morning—”

He stopped abruptly when Merlin’s head shot up to his, blue eyes wide, his face wearing a look that could only be described as panic. Merlin pulled his hands away from his task as if they suddenly burned, and he took a step back, away from Arthur.

Arthur swallowed, unsettled by Merlin’s reaction. Was he that uncomfortable around Arthur now? Was Merlin _afraid_ of him?

He took a deep breath before trying again. “Look, Merlin… I—”

“I think I left something on the field,” Merlin cut in, voice high-pitched and strained. He took another step backward, putting more distance between the two of them. “I’ll…” he continued, moving slowly toward the door, “just be… right back.” Then he turned and fled.

Arthur stood helplessly, looking at the empty doorway, not sure how he was feeling about Merlin’s reaction. He noted, however, his heart was racing and his palms were damp. He shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to quell his response. When Merlin didn’t return, Arthur wiped his hands on his trousers then removed the rest of his armour, concentrating on his task so he wouldn’t have to think about what had just happened. Leon entered the room just as he was finishing up.

“Arthur, there you are. I wanted to ask you about—”

Arthur, still upset, wasn’t in any frame of mind to form coherent thoughts. “Not now, Leon,” he said, walking past him, bumping his shoulder as he went by.

That evening, Arthur paced restlessly in his chambers, wondering if Merlin was going to show up. When he heard a small knock on the door as someone pushed it open, he was filled with relief to see Merlin appearing on the other side carrying a tray with his supper.

He kept far away from the boy, not wanting to scare him off again.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he said, waiting for him to place the tray on the table and move away before walking over to eat his meal.

Merlin busied himself in his chambers, building the fire, turning down his bed, getting his night shirt readied.

Without looking up, Arthur started to speak. He could hear Merlin still the moment he began. “I’ll not have you sleeping in the corridor again,” he said. “You’ll sleep in here, in front of the fire. And,” he hastened to add before Merlin bolted, like a frightened colt, “you’ll have no need to worry… about me.” He pressed on before he lost his nerve. He needed to get this out. “I won’t… touch you again. You’ll be safe here. I give you my word.”

He wanted to look up, to see Merlin’s reaction, but he didn’t think he could bear to see panic or fear in his eyes again.

“I’ll arrange to have a pallet brought up tomorrow. You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.”

After a long pause, Merlin finally spoke. “Thank you, sire.”

-o-

Having Merlin sleeping in his rooms every night was a new kind of torture. Before that morning, Arthur had rarely given his manservant a thought, certainly not the kinds of thoughts he was now having about the boy. Images of Merlin filled his mind at all hours of the day.

Arthur was dining with his father one evening, discussing the latest reports from the scouts who had returned earlier in the day. Merlin was leaning over his shoulder to pour him some wine when Arthur glanced at his servant and caught sight of a small, fading purple bruise on his neck, just behind his ear. His words faltered mid-sentence as he was brought back to the moment the bruise was formed, his teeth biting into Merlin’s skin, the boy shaking and trembling against him as he spilled his release.

He felt hot all over, arousal pooling in his stomach, and Arthur forced himself to tear his eyes away and return to the conversation, as if the serving of the wine had interrupted his thoughts, and not Merlin’s pale skin, marked by his mouth.

That night he couldn’t get the image out of his mind, that small dark bruise. He found his eyes drawn to it again and again, every time Merlin was near. He wanted to touch it, press against it with his thumb. He wondered how long it would be until it had faded completely. Irrationally, the thought made him angry and he wanted to mark it fresh, suck again on that long, elegant neck and taste his skin, biting over the exact same spot, bringing blood to the surface as proof that Arthur was there.

He noticed every detail about Merlin now, how striking his colouring was—the night-dark hair against the pale white skin, the deep pure blue of his eyes. And though he was young, and Arthur was used to thinking of him as a boy—Merlin having started serving him when they were both much younger and he being the older of the two by several years—he realized Merlin had at some point grown into a man. He was taller than Arthur, if only by a bit, and though thin, evinced a wiry strength. No, he wasn’t a child. Not by any means. And he was definitely of age. The realization eased some of his guilt over what had happened, but he still hadn’t forgiven himself for taking advantage of his servant and for making him so obviously uncomfortable.

His lingering guilt, however, couldn’t stop the memories from stealing into his thoughts multiple times during the day. Merlin’s mouth proved to be the biggest distraction of all. Arthur found himself staring at it all too often. Plump, pink lips, delicately bowed. They were almost pretty, like a girl’s. But Arthur remembered all too well the taste of them, the slight scrape of stubble as his own lips mouthed across Merlin’s jaw, the throaty sounds escaping from between them. 

His eyes were drawn again to that lush gorgeous mouth as Merlin stood near, assisting him with his armour after training one afternoon. The lips were parted, just a bit, and the tip of Merlin’s pink tongue was pressed between his teeth as his servant struggled with a fastening that was proving resistant to his efforts. When it finally gave way, his mouth curved up into a smile, revealing the small dimple in Merlin’s cheek that had appeared all too infrequently lately. Arthur’s heart gave a lurch, and when Merlin’s fingers brushed against the back of his neck, the kind of casual touch he hadn’t felt in so long, Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut and he drew in a breath, all concentration focused on that tiny spot where Merlin’s hand was touching his skin.

He felt Merlin pause and braced himself for the inevitable pulling away, but his servant surprised him, continuing to remove his armour, not stopping his fingers from brushing against Arthur’s skin again and again, the way they used to, before Arthur learned to appreciate such minor affections. Arthur kept his eyes shut, feeling the increase in his pulse at every slight touch. He craved it. He hadn’t realized just how much until that very second. He thought about that one morning, Merlin’s fingers brushing his cheek, his breathy voice as he said Arthur’s name, the press of his body against his own, and Arthur _wanted_ it again. Wanted it with a ferocious strength that took him by surprise.

As much as Arthur had missed the Merlin of old—the impertinent talking back, the overly familiar attitude—he realized, now that he was seeing the first traces of his return, he didn’t really want that Merlin at all. No, Arthur wanted the Merlin he had caught glimpses of only once before—the one who shivered under his touch, who gasped and whimpered against his skin. The one who looked at him with adoration and unravelled in his arms. He’d give almost anything to have that Merlin back again.

Not wanting to open his eyes and see who was currently assisting him—the distant Merlin of late, the old Merlin with his casual touches, or the one he so desperately desired—Arthur stepped out of reach and without turning to look at the boy, asked, “Could you please find Sir Leon? He said he needed to speak to me about something.” Unable to stand the thought of another disappointment, he only relaxed after Merlin replied, “Yes, sire,” and left the room.

That night he was attuned to every sound Merlin made, each time he shifted under the blanket, trying to get comfortable, the small noises he made as he settled himself on his pallet, the change in his breathing when he finally fell asleep. Arthur longed to get out of bed, to walk over and stare his fill at the beautiful boy, trace those high cheekbones with his eyes, those ridiculous ears, the sensuous curve of his lips, the long column of his neck. But he had promised. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to keep his hands at his sides, his lips from tasting that sinful mouth one more time.

Instead, he lay quietly in bed, trying to ignore the hardness between his legs, but unable to keep thoughts of Merlin from filling his head—the way he had rocked against Arthur’s thigh, his long, slender fingers clutching at his chest, the sounds he made as he pulsed his release. But especially that expression on his lovely open face, the one that said _Arthur_ , and _I want you_ , and _I adore you_.

Arthur reached his hand down and squeezed his length, not planning anything other than easing the ache. But as soon as he touched himself, a rush of images filled his mind—Merlin’s pale fingers wrapped around his cock; that perfect mouth, closing over the head, licking at the moisture beading at the tip; and those eyes, deep and blue and expressive, staring up at him from under a fringe of black lashes. Arthur tried to banish the pictures from his mind, thinking of Guinevere and her sweet smile and dark shining eyes. He had never been aroused by thoughts of men before, but Guinevere’s image refused to stay fixed. Dark eyes faded to blue and soft brown curves shifted to ivory, taut and angular. Finally, Arthur gave up the pretence and let himself indulge, muffling his voice in his pillow as he stroked himself off, seeing Merlin in his mind’s eye—pale and wanton and beautiful. Only Merlin.

Twice the following day, he could swear he caught Merlin looking at him. The first was during training, after a particularly skilled bout with Lancelot. Even as he was filled with uncertainty these days, and troubled by doubts, Arthur’s confidence never forsook him on the battle field. Wielding his sword grounded him in ways nothing else could. He knew his skill had been impressive; even Lancelot agreed. And when Arthur turned to walk off the field, yielding the area to the next pair of fighters, he was flushed with victory and smiling broadly. A movement on the sidelines caught his eye and he looked over to see Merlin watching him, a soft smile on his lips and his face holding a look of pride. There was something else there as well—a heated intensity to his gaze that Arthur felt right in his gut. But when Merlin saw Arthur looking, the smile disappeared abruptly and his face shifted into an impassive mask. It all happened so quickly, Arthur was left to wonder if he had only imagined the expression he had just seen on Merlin’s face. 

The second was in the armoury afterward. There were no casual touches this time, and Merlin flinched at any accidental contact with Arthur’s skin. Arthur tried not to be disappointed, to put his inappropriate thoughts aside, but Merlin was so near, and his craving for the boy all-consuming. He couldn’t keep his eyes closed this time, couldn’t deny himself the chance to revel in their closeness. If he breathed deeply, he could even smell his skin. Arthur turned slightly as Merlin’s fingers fumbled with a buckle on his armour. He looked over at the boy’s face, eyes drawn to his mouth, and imagined leaning in, closing the small distance between them, and crushing those plump lips with his own. He swallowed, pushing the impulse back, and lifted his eyes away from such delicious temptation. His heart gave a leap when he saw Merlin’s gaze firmly fixed on his own mouth.

When Merlin realized Arthur was staring at him, his eyes snapped up and he took a short step back. The colour bloomed on his cheeks. This time, however, he didn’t run, but took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and moved back to finish his task. Arthur was tempted to lean in, crowd closer to see if the blush would spread, but he held fast to his promise. He wouldn’t act on his desires.

It wasn’t his imagination, Arthur decided. He had caught Merlin staring at him numerous times in the past weeks, gaze heated, and not at all afraid. When their eyes met, Merlin didn’t turn away in embarrassment. No, he held Arthur’s eyes a little longer than usual, the flush stealing over his cheeks. His fingers reached automatically to his neck, as if he wasn’t aware what he was doing, touching the spot that used to bear Arthur’s mark. Arthur was mesmerized by the gesture, the rush of blood colouring his skin. Something stirred in him, possessive and wild, but as always, he pushed such feelings back, refusing to let them take hold, cause him to do something he’d later regret.

The small touches had continued; indeed, they had grown more bold and were not the innocent ones of old. Merlin’s fingers lingered on his skin, soft caresses that raised goose pimples where they passed. He stood closer as he helped Arthur dress, so near Arthur could feel the heat from his body through the fabric of his clothing, feel the warmth of his breath in his ear. Merlin’s actions had to be deliberate, and Arthur grew increasingly frustrated, unable to act on his desires. He took his anger out on Merlin, snapping at him, short-tempered, increasing the tasks he assigned—often the most unpleasant he could find. 

Merlin retaliated by taunting him in small unsettling ways, standing even closer, leaning into his body whenever he could, wetting his lips with a slow sweep of his pink tongue while looking up at him through a fringe of lush thick lashes. Arthur had no idea how he resisted such obvious goading, but he somehow managed, even if he repeated his act of seeking release while Merlin slept peacefully nearby.

Everything came to a head one brisk afternoon. Arthur arrived at training agitated and tense. The crisp clear sky seemed to mock his stormy mood. The meeting with his father over breakfast had not gone well.

“How is it that we still do not know who’s behind these attacks?” Uther had asked as they ate their meal, discussing the report of yet another slaughtered druid camp, this time to the west, made to look as if Camelot was the perpetrator.

“I have my suspicions—”

“Well, confirm them,” Uther said with a stern look in Arthur’s direction.

Feeling like a failure under the weight of Uther’s disappointment, Arthur could only answer, “Yes, father.”

Later on the practice field, Arthur called out, “Leon, let’s you and I have a go at it, shall we?”

“Are you sure, sire? You’ve been at it hard all afternoon. Don’t you want to take a break?”

“Ah, scared to fight me, I see. I don’t blame you one bit.”

Leon tipped back his head and laughed. “Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Leon fought well, but he was no match for the prince. Arthur knew he had nothing to prove, but he gave it his all anyway. With a sword in his hand, he was in his element. This was where he excelled. The rest of his life may have been a riot of tumult, but here, on the field, he was at home. He felt invincible. Arthur was tiring, but nonetheless, he looked assured of an easy victory. That is, until he noticed Leon nodding in acknowledgment to someone off the field. Curious, Arthur turned to look and saw Guinevere standing there; she was joined quickly by Lancelot. He raised his hand to her face, stroking his knuckles tenderly over her cheek, and her answering smile was like the cut of a blade.

Completely unprepared for his visceral reaction to the sight, as if he’d been punched hard in the gut, Arthur faltered when Leon pressed the attack. Unable to get his shield properly in place, Leon’s blow fell at an odd angle, wrenching his shoulder. The pain shot through his arm, but at least managed to bring his full attention back to the fight, and even with his arm hanging practically useless at his side, he surged forward and quickly disarmed the other knight.

“Well fought,” he congratulated Leon, grasping his forearm in acknowledgment. When Arthur winced, Leon asked, “Are you all right, sire?”

Arthur nodded. “You’re not so useless, after all,” he joked. “It’s nothing. My shoulder. I’ll get some salve from Gaius. I think, however, I’ve had enough for the day. Can you finish up here with the men?”

“Of course.”

Merlin was by his side almost instantly once Arthur was off the field. He relieved Arthur of his shield and hovered over him like a worried nursemaid. When he stood too close, as had been his wont of late, Arthur took a step back. Once his hauberk had been removed, Merlin began working on the ties to his gambeson. Merlin crowded close again, and Arthur gritted his teeth in irritation. When he felt Merlin’s hot breath in his ear and his fingers gently stroking the back of his neck, anger flared at his body’s traitorous response. He twisted away, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he said, voice cold as steel, “but I’m in no mood for your games.”

“Arthur… I—”

He didn’t want to hear whatever Merlin had to say. He only wanted a few moments alone to nurse his wounds in private. “See if Gaius has some sort of salve for my shoulder. Bring it to my chambers with my supper.”

“But Arthur—”

“And make sure there’s a hot bath waiting for me.”

When Merlin still didn’t make move to leave, he added, “That will be all.”

After a long pause, Merlin said, “Yes, sire.”

The hot bath did little to ease the ache in his shoulder. And having Merlin tip-toeing around the room while he bathed only reminded him of one more thing he couldn’t have. Seeing Guinevere and Lancelot together had affected him more than he expected. His mind had been so occupied with other thoughts lately, he hadn’t dwelt as much on that particular wound. But seeing them, their obvious love for each other clear in every small gesture, it was as if the bandage had been ripped away, leaving a fresh bleed.

He groaned as he pulled himself from the tub. Merlin was immediately by his side with a towel. He rubbed it over his hair then wrapped it around his waist, grimacing with each move.

“Why don’t you lie down on the bed and I’ll rub this into your shoulder?” Merlin suggested, holding up the pot of salve.

The surge of arousal he felt at the thought of his servant’s hands on him both unsettled and irritated him. He didn’t need this added complication to his life. He needed to put Merlin out of his mind, not give himself more images to make his nights more restless. But he was tired, and sore, and worn down; he knew it would be difficult to reach the muscles himself.

Coming to a decision, he arranged himself on his stomach, the towel draped over his hips. Arthur shut his eyes and tried to relax. He felt the bed dip next to him, then he shivered at the first touch of Merlin’s hands on his skin. Merlin pulled them away. 

“Sorry. Sorry. I should have warmed it up first.”

Arthur grunted in response, not wanting to admit it wasn’t the temperature of the salve that caused his reaction.

Merlin’s fingers were strong as they kneaded their way across his shoulders. Eventually, Arthur started to relax as the salve worked its way into his muscles, warming them and easing the ache.

“Right there. A little harder,” he directed.

Merlin pressed deeper, but the angle was wrong.

“I can’t really get… wait… let me…” then he was shifting on the bed, swinging his knees over Arthur’s hips and straddling his thighs. 

As Merlin’s weight settled on the back of his legs, Arthur’s previous state of relaxation disappeared. His shoulders tensed and he gave a small gasp as his muscles contracted painfully. Merlin made a little clucking noise, stroking his skin in a soothing manner, both hands pressing into the flesh by his shoulder blades.

“Try to relax, sire.”

Arthur did try, but the gentle rocking motion on his thighs, the agile hands on his bare skin made him acutely aware he was all but naked and there was a boy touching him everywhere, his weight pressing him into the bed. Every inch of skin burned with a deep heat wherever Merlin’s hands roamed and he felt himself start to harden. 

Arthur closed his eyes, ignoring his erection, and tried to let the salve and the deep tissue massage do its work. After a while he became aware that Merlin’s hands had at some point ceased their therapeutic movements and were now moving over his body with what could only be called caresses—slow sensuous strokes, the salve coating his palms allowing them to slip smoothly over his skin. Merlin’s breathing had also changed. His breaths were deeper, heavier. His thumbs pressed down the sides of Arthur’s spine, sliding all the way down from the base of his skull to his lower back, slipping beneath the edge of the towel, skimming the edge of his rear. Arthur buried his face in the crook of his elbow and tried not to reveal how his own breathing was more laboured. Merlin repeated the motion again and again, the slow slide down the spine, the tease below the hips.

His hands eventually stilled, thumbs pressing into the indentations just above the globes of his arse, fingers splayed loosely at his waist.

“Can I…?” he started, his hands sliding slowly up Arthur’s back, then back down to his waist.

“Can you what?” Arthur prompted, face muffled in his arms, but his mind screaming _yes_.

“Can I…?” His thumbs slid beneath the fabric again and dipped slightly farther down, grazing the top of the crevice of his rear. His breathing was quicker now, still audible to Arthur’s ears. Arthur waited silently, not wanting to interrupt Merlin’s request. After a moment, he finally spoke.

“I know you won’t touch me, but… would it be all right if I touched you?” His hands had stilled at Arthur’s hips, but he could feel them trembling.

Arthur didn’t respond right away, the request causing his face to flush with a sudden rush of heat, every nerve hyper aware of the boy balancing behind him.

“Please, Arthur,” he begged in a low breathy voice. “This isn’t a game. Please let me touch you.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes tighter at the sudden onslaught of feeling. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead he shifted his leg, crooking it slightly at the knee, relieving the pressure on his throbbing shaft and tilting his arse in the air, letting the towel slip from his hips.

A small gasp escaped from Merlin’s lips and he was still for one shocked moment, as if he couldn’t believe that Arthur was acquiescing, then he gave a noise of appreciation before sliding his hands reverently over the muscular globes of Arthur’s arse.

Arthur’s hips bucked instinctively, his cock seeking friction, rubbing against the bedding. As Merlin explored his body, strong agile hands kneading into his flesh, Arthur reached a hand down to fist himself, aching for relief. Merlin let out another small noise, as if he were choking, and his fingers dug even harder into Arthur’s arse. Then his slick hand, still covered in salve, slid in the crevice between his rounded flesh, stretching him apart, exposing his hole. 

Arthur had never had anyone touch him so intimately, never been this close with another man. He knew, of course, what some men got up to together on long campaigns, but he had never felt the desire to explore such things, his heart while away still belonging to Guinevere. He was unsure what he wanted, if he could allow another man to touch him there. When Merlin’s slick finger glided over his hole, Arthur reacted immediately, clenching his cheeks tight and gasping into his arm, a strangled noise of protest escaping his mouth. 

Merlin retreated immediately, pulling his hand away, moving his fingers back to the curve of his arse, then sliding his palms upwards, massaging slowly, and pressing soothingly into his lower back.

“Shhh,” Merlin said. “It’s all right.” After a few more gentling strokes he whispered, “Gods, you’re so beautiful.” His voice was reverent, worshipful. His hand were as well, touching him as if he were precious, a rare treasure to hold.

Arthur’s head was spinning at the sensations this man’s hands were bringing out in him. He marvelled how the tables had turned, how he was the one unravelling while Merlin’s touch took him apart. Shaken by his reactions and how vulnerable he felt, Arthur wanted Merlin to lose a little of his control—to be more like the boy who had trembled against him, shuddering and shaking apart with his release. Arthur shifted his leg a little higher, bringing it back toward his chest, spreading his arse wider, offering himself to Merlin’s touch.

“Oh,” Merlin breathed with a sigh. “Gods, Arthur.” His voice shook. He didn’t waste a second, sliding his hands back down, spreading him wider and pressing a single slicked finger against his hole. Arthur’s hand sped between his legs; he was already near the edge of his release. His emotions were too overwhelming to process. He only knew that he wanted more, wanted Merlin, his hands, his fingers on his flesh. Releasing his cock to reach behind him, Arthur groped blindly for Merlin’s hand. Pulling it away from where it held his arse prised open, he tugged it around his hips, telling him without words what he needed. The boy didn’t disappoint. He wrapped his hand around Arthur’s own, fisting them over his cock. Together their fingers intertwined as they stroked Arthur toward his climax. Merlin was almost incoherent, babbling, “Oh gods. So beautiful. Gods, Arthur. Gods.” 

Merlin’s other hand was still poised at his entrance, the tip his finger pressing at the delicate furled skin. As Arthur spun toward completion, moaning and thrusting into their fists, Merlin pushed in with his finger, breaching his opening. Arthur felt his body clamp tight around the intrusion as he spasmed and pulsed in thick stripes across the bed. He barely recognized the harsh, broken cries coming from his mouth as his own voice.

Merlin gave one last stroke to Arthur’s sensitive cock before pulling his hand away. Arthur heard him frantically working at the laces of his breeches and then the rhythmic movement as Merlin stripped his cock, fast and hard. In just minutes Merlin was crying out and Arthur felt the hot splash of come across his arse, each drop incinerating him to oblivion.

Wrung out and exhausted, a little embarrassed by his uncontrolled responses, Arthur lay face down, listening to Merlin’s panting breaths. He tried to ignore the loss he felt when Merlin finally moved off his legs. He felt exposed and strangely vulnerable, reliving the things he had just let Merlin do. And now he was lying naked, alone on the bed and covered with seed. But then Merlin returned with a damp cloth and tenderly wiped him clean, as if he were fragile as glass.

Drained by emotion and sinking into post-orgasmic torpor, Arthur longed to lose himself in sleep. As he began to drift, he felt a blanket being pulled up over his hips, then the soft press of lips at the knob of bone near the top of his spine, breath hot on his neck. He shivered with pleasure.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” Merlin said.

The next morning Merlin was quiet as he helped ready Arthur for the day. His fingers were back to their old clumsiness and when they brushed against Arthur’s skin, a pink blush spread over his face. Arthur stared, fascinated, watching the blood rise up to his ears. He wanted to lick them, see if the temperature was as warm as it looked. Again preferring to face things head on, Arthur asked, low, while Merlin’s face was inches from his own, “So, not a game?”

Merlin’s head whipped up and the look on his face was so raw, it took Arthur’s breath away—full of heat, and longing, and the same devotion Arthur had seen the morning he woke him in front of the fire.

Humbled, Arthur searched his eyes, stunned by the emotion laid bare to him.

“No,” Merlin whispered, never averting his gaze. “Not a game.”

Arthur reached his hand to Merlin’s neck, rubbing his thumb tenderly across his cheek. Then he tugged him closer, kissing him soft and sweet. “Merlin,” he breathed, a smile in his voice. Then he pulled the man to his chest, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. They swayed gently for a few moments until Arthur pulled away, placing a kiss at his temple as he released him. Merlin’s radiant smile filled his belly with warmth.

-o-

In the upcoming days, Arthur didn’t have time to explore this new dynamic with his manservant, but he had plenty of time to think about what had transpired. After leaving his chambers, he was summoned almost immediately to meet with his father. Hours later he was riding out of Camelot’s gates with his men, toward Escetia, tasked with discovering whether rumours of amassing forces held any truth. Typically, Merlin would have accompanied him on such a mission, but Gaius had requested he stay behind to help with an outbreak of illness in the lower town.

The days were long and the nights were cold and Arthur felt a sense of isolation from his men that hadn’t existed before Lancelot’s betrayal. He watched while they sat around the fire laughing and joking over the evening meal; their camaraderie was evident. Arthur sat apart, observing, but not joining in. The men made attempts to include him, but even they seemed relieved when he retired early for the evening.

Arthur lay in his tent, listening to sound of their voices, the occasional peal of raucous laughter. Loneliness settled over him like a blanket. He shut his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep before he completely succumbed to his maudlin mood. They’d be travelling home soon. Already he could feel the weight of his father’s disappointment, knowing they’d be returning once again with no real answers. Cenred was up to something, of that he was certain. Yet, they had been unable to uncover any overt evidence of his plans. What they had determined, however, was Escetia had become a refuge for the druids. They were fleeing Camelot in the wake of the attacks on their settlements. Cenred had the magic users on his side. Perhaps they were the only army he’d need.

Pressing his fingers against his forehead, Arthur groaned. His father would be unbearable. As would watching Guinevere and Lancelot reunite once again. The sting Arthur usually felt when thinking about Guinevere wasn’t as sharp this time, the pain not so deep. Another face, paler and angled sharp, kept slipping to the forefront in his mind—blue eyes, heavy lidded and sleep-soft. The smile on Merlin’s face after Arthur had kissed him that last morn. The hot splash of his seed on Arthur’s bare skin. 

Arthur felt his cock stirring as he thought about Merlin. Deciding that spending his release would help him relax, Arthur kicked off his breeches and began stroking himself to hardness. For the first time since he left Camelot, Arthur allowed himself to indulge in the memories, playing them over in his mind at his leisure, lingering on specific moments—the tug of Merlin’s fist in his hair, the hot slide of his tongue against his own. As he stroked himself, using his thumb to roll back his foreskin, sliding the gathering wetness over the head of his cock, he thought of Merlin’s hands, those long elegant fingers, how they stroked across his cheek, so loving and tender, how they clutched at his clothing that first time, grasping and clenching almost desperately as his body trembled and shook with desire. How they kneaded deep into his muscles, first relaxing Arthur, then arousing him unbearably. How they spread him open, then penetrated him while bringing him off with his fist.

Fully hard now, and aching with need, Arthur spread his knees wider. Curious, he reached between his legs with one hand, rubbing the soft bit of skin behind his balls for a moment before sliding his finger down to press at his opening. Grimacing, he pushed the tip of his finger against his hole, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He took a deep breath and continued to stroke his cock, focusing instead on the memory of Merlin’s hands, how he had felt as his slick finger slid against his hole. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Arthur sucked his finger between his lips, slicking it with spit. He reached down between his legs again, pushing in with increased pressure. This time his finger slipped into his body. His breath hitched and he flushed with heat; his body gave a little reflexive jerk of discomfort, but he kept his finger there, trying to get used to the sensation. When he had adjusted, he pushed it in even deeper, as far as it would go. Picturing Merlin’s graceful hands, he wondered how much deeper they could slide, how many more fingers he could fit. Remembering the feel of Merlin’s length on his thigh as he rutted against him, Arthur let himself imagine Merlin’s cock replacing those fingers, buried deep inside. 

The thought of Merlin draped over him with his cock stuffing him full was almost too much for Arthur. He started pumping his erection hard and swift and with a long quiet shudder, he spilled over his fist, his finger slipping from his body as he climaxed.

-o-

A light dusting of snow came down around them as they neared Camelot. The closer they got, the lighter the moods of his men became. Laughter flowed freely and even the horses seemed to sense the excitement, their footsteps prancing as they picked up speed. For the first time in recent memory, Arthur’s chest didn’t ache with a hollow emptiness. He was full of a nervous energy, an anticipation that made him anxious for home.

After he had let himself relive those memories of Merlin, he found it almost impossible to keep thoughts of the man out of his head. He had imagined Merlin’s lush mouth, the long tendons of his neck, his elegant fingers, so many times, he couldn’t wait to compare his recollections with the real thing. And he had yet to see it, but Arthur had also imagined Merlin’s cock innumerable times—in his hand, between his lips… buried deep in his arse. Night after night he’d dreamed about what he would do if he had Merlin in his bed again; he hoped he’d be given the chance to make some of those fantasies come true. When they broke through the trees and the tall towers and stately walls of the castle came into view, her graceful lines draped in a veil of white, Arthur’s heart gave a leap of joy. They spurred their horses faster, hurrying toward Camelot.

Arthur’s eyes scanned the courtyard looking only for one face. Not the one he would have expected to seek only weeks ago. Instead of warm brown eyes and long dark curls, he sought a thatch of night-dark hair atop porcelain skin. When he caught sight of a flash of crimson, his eyes were drawn to Merlin, bright kerchief around his neck, standing near the stables. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and snowflakes adorned his hair and lashes, like sparkling jewels. Arthur couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. Merlin’s answering grin carried no uncertainty, only pleasure at Arthur’s return.

Dismounting, Arthur strode toward his manservant, leading his horse toward the stable.

He stopped, standing close, looking into shining blue eyes, brilliant sapphires gazing up through a sable fringe. “Merlin,” he said.

“Welcome home, sire.” His voice was warm as he took the reins from Arthur’s hand. 

They stood staring at each other, the cold weather having no effect on the coil of heat winding through Arthur’s belly. Merlin broke their eye contact first, giving a small laugh, as if his happiness was too great to be contained and had bubbled up from the pressure through a much needed outlet.

“Let me…” he said, nodding toward the stable, starting to move in that direction leading Arthur’s steed.

“Right. Yes,” Arthur agreed, following alongside, concentrating on keeping his hands at his sides, and not where he wanted—on Merlin’s shoulders, pulling his slender body back against his chest.

The moment they were through the stable door, Arthur’s control snapped. He manhandled Merlin into the first available open stall and swung the door shut behind them. Merlin dropped the lead he was holding, only half-heartedly attempting to get free, saying in a flustered voice, “Arthur… what…”

His words were cut off by Arthur’s lips as Arthur pressed Merlin back against the stable wall and kissed him with all the pent up passion that had been building the entire journey home. Merlin tensed in surprise, but only for fractions of a second before he melted against Arthur, his mouth opening to emit a low moan, his hands reaching up to sink into Arthur’s hair, nails scraping on his scalp. Arthur immediately took advantage of his parted lips and thrust his tongue between them, tasting Merlin’s mouth as if he were starved. His hands moved to Merlin’s hips, pulling them tight against his own. Then he brought one gloved hand up to Merlin’s jaw, tilting his head so he could kiss him even more deeply, tangling their tongues together. He analyzed the taste, the textures of his mouth, determined to never again have only hazy memories to rely on.

Arthur kissed him for a few moments more, shifting his hips against Merlin’s, his erection growing, arousal building like a rising storm. He could feel Merlin’s own cock becoming hard as he moved from his lips to bite at Merlin’s jaw then suck down his neck. He licked wet stripes across his skin, tasting him, drinking him in, then moved to the spot behind Merlin’s ear, the one that used to bear his mark, and sucked against his skin, nipping him sharply with his teeth.

Merlin’s frantic little whine went straight to Arthur’s cock and he rocked his hips harder against the boy, grinding against him. 

“Thought about this…” Arthur panted the whispered confession in Merlin’s ear. “Thought about you...” 

He reached his hand down between their bodies and cupped it over Merlin’s cock, squeezing.

“What you’d taste like,” he continued. “The noises you’d make.”

In response, Merlin’s hips bucked into his hand and small desperate whimpers fell from his lips.

Arthur fumbled at the laces of Merlin’s breeches, growling in frustration when his still-gloved hands were too bulky and inept for finesse. Reaching his hand up to his face, he pulled his mouth away from Merlin’s skin long enough to use his teeth yank the glove off one hand. He tossed it into the straw at their feet and went back to his task, loosening the tie and plunging his hand under the fabric.

He groaned when his fingers closed over Merlin’s hot shaft and it twitched beneath his fingers. Pulling back to look at Merlin’s face, he was rewarded with the sight of his manservant, face flushed, mouth open and panting, lips red and swollen, his eyes gone dark with desire.

“Gods, look at you,” Arthur murmured, moving his hand over Merlin’s cock, watching his lashes flutter and his chest heave with a gasp as he stroked.

Wanting to finally look at what he was touching, Arthur leaned in to kiss Merlin hard on the mouth, then he sank to his knees, pushing aside the fabric of Merlin’s coat and tugging his breeches down.

A strangled noise came from above and Arthur looked up to see Merlin’s eyes staring down at him, shocked and wild.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a choked voice, hands plucking at Arthur’s shoulders, feebly attempting to get him to rise.

“Tasting you,” Arthur said, torn between keeping his eyes locked on the wrecked face of the boy above him or examining what was jutting out a fingerspan from his lips. The hot flesh in front of his face won and Arthur grasped Merlin’s cock with his fist, sliding the foreskin away and revealing the rosy head, a few clear drops of liquid beading at the slit. He stuck out his tongue, bringing his face closer, and licked the wetness away, his own eyes drifting closed at the taste, salty and pungent.

Wanting more, he closed his lips around the head of Merlin’s cock, moaning, sliding his tongue across the head again, savouring his flavour. Arthur had never done anything like this with another man before, but he’d received pleasure in this manner, so he understood in concept what to do. What he didn’t expect, however, was his own craving to have Merlin in his mouth, to suck him down, feel the vein on the underside of his cock against his tongue. He didn’t expect the effect his actions would have on Merlin, his hips bucking frantically, incoherent noises pouring from his mouth. 

Arthur pulled back, gagging, eyes watering, and looked up at Merlin. His own desire flared at the pure naked want on his face, hot and hungry and intense.

“You’ll have to be quiet,” Arthur said, voice low and hoarse.

Merlin nodded, and when Arthur grasped the base of his cock in his hand again, Merlin’s head flung back, knocking into the wall with a thump, hips jerking in response. Arthur used his gloved hand to grip Merlin’s hip, holding him steady against the wall, his thumb digging into his flesh. He moved his mouth back around Merlin’s erection, slurping and sucking, no art to his actions, but driven by an uncontrollable urge to get as much of Merlin in his mouth as he could.

As he knelt, completely consumed by his need, devouring Merlin’s cock, he began to hear the voices of the other men arriving in the stable, the squires and stable boys assisting with the returning horses. Merlin lifted his head, panic that they may be caught now mixed with the desire showing on his face. Arthur simply continued his actions, hollowing his cheeks to suck harder, eyes locked on Merlin’s. He sped the movement of his hand, swirling his tongue around Merlin’s shaft and almost had to shut his own eyes against the sight of Merlin, hand reaching for Arthur’s hair, trying to tug him away, but unable to before his body tensed and he spasmed against Arthur’s tongue, filling his mouth with hot seed.

Arthur pulled back a little, trying to swallow it down, savouring the slightly bitter flavuor on his tongue, rapt at the expression on Merlin’s face—pain and pleasure combined—but he was unprepared for the continuing pulsing of Merlin’s cock and he struggled to swallow again as more of Merlin’s release dribbled out of the side of his mouth. When Merlin stilled, Arthur pulled his hand away to frantically work at his own laces, trying to release his own aching cock. Merlin sunk down to the ground, kneeling next to Arthur and joined his hands to the task, freeing his erection from his breeches then wrapping his fingers around it.

Licking at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, cleaning his seed off his skin, Merlin pressed his lips against Arthur’s, capturing his low moan as he spilled on the ground. Arthur pulled his mouth away, panting, resting his head against Merlin’s forehead; their hands gave one last slow pull against his spent cock and he gave a shudder, oversensitive. After a moment, he pulled back to look at Merlin’s debauched face.

“It’s good to be home,” he said, slightly breathless, face breaking into a grin.

Merlin lips quirked, then he broke out in a dazzling smile, a bark of laughter leaving his lips. They collapsed against each other again, laughing softly and Arthur felt almost giddy with the ridiculousness of it all.

-o-

Arthur barrelled through the castle, still stinging from his father’s words, not paying any attention to where he was heading, only driven by the need to escape. A surprised cry rang out as he collided with someone after turning a corner. He reached out to grab the person’s shoulders, an apology on his lips, and found himself staring into Guinevere’s startled brown eyes.

“Arthur,” she gasped.

“Guinevere. Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes I’m fine. You just startled me.”

“I’m sorry. I was… preoccupied. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Oh. Is anything wrong?”

“It’s—” Arthur automatically started to tell her about the recent conversation with his father, Uther’s disappointment at Arthur’s continuing failure to uncover more about the attacks on the druid camps or Cenred’s plans, but stopped himself. For a moment he forgot she was no longer his, no longer the one he could turn to for comfort, for a sympathetic ear. A hot flash of rage burned briefly in his gut. He shook his head, quelling the flare of emotion, tamping it down.

“It’s nothing important,” he said.

Realizing his hands were still holding her shoulders, Arthur dropped them and took a step backward. He cleared his throat and looked away.

“Are you… how have you been?” Guinevere asked. 

“I’ve been well. And you?”

“Fine. I’ve... I’ve been fine.”

Was this how it’d always be now, he wondered? Polite strangers? The awkward conversation was bringing that urge to flee even more into focus.

Guinevere put her hand on his arm. He stared at it, uncomprehendingly, then looked at her questioningly.

“Arthur…” she faltered.

He continued to stare, noting the flush creeping up her cheeks. He felt detached, as if he were simply an observer to the conversation instead of a participant.

“It’s just that…” she continued. “I haven’t had the chance to… You’ve been gone so much and… I wanted to say I’m—”

“It’s all right, Guinevere,” Arthur cut in, interrupting her stammering while removing her hand from his arm. He took another step back.

“But I wanted to—”

“There’s no need,” he interrupted again. He didn’t want to hear whatever she had to say, whether she was sorry, or grateful, or missed him, or something else entirely. Anything at all was going to hurt in some way and he wasn’t prepared right now to hear it. He didn’t need the scab ripped open anew.

“I want you to be happy,” he said.

She stared him, her eyes searching his face. “I am,” she finally said.

“Good. That’s… good.”

“But Arthur—”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve somewhere I need to be. It was good to see you, Guinevere.”

“Oh… of course.” She took the step back this time, looking flustered.

He gave a slight bow, then turned, heading down the corridor at a swift pace. His only impulse had been to escape the conversation with Guinevere, to keep his thoughts and memories at bay, lest they consume him. But as he walked, he realized he had spoken the truth; he did have somewhere he needed to be. His footsteps picked up speed.

Merlin looked up as he burst through the door.

“Arthur?”

Arthur strode across the room and grabbed Merlin’s upper arms, pulling him close, kissing him soundly. His lips were demanding and sure and Merlin responded instantly, opening his mouth and seeking out Arthur’s tongue with his own. Arthur urged him closer still, pushing his knee between Merlin’s leg and rubbing his thigh against his groin. Merlin’s moans filled his mouth.

Heat uncurled in Arthur’s stomach, spreading through him like a wildfire. Since Arthur’s return to Camelot after his last mission away, his time with Merlin had been a revelation. Their frantic reunion in the stable was only the beginning. They had righted their clothing, kicked straw over Arthur’s release and exited the stall so Merlin could take care of Arthur’s steed. Ignoring Gwaine’s assessing stare, Arthur had left to report to his father. He didn’t see Merlin again until that evening. They didn’t discuss what had happened earlier, but Arthur was aware of every small touch, every glance. When Merlin prepared to retire to his pallet, Arthur stopped him, grabbing his wrist.

“I’d like you to…” he hesitated. Arthur didn’t want this to be a command. He thought back on what Lancelot had said to him, the realization he’d had that any request would be seen that way regardless. But he was too selfish, wanted this too much, to not ask at all.

“If you’re willing, I’d like you to share my bed tonight.” He was strangely nervous, pulse beginning to race, palms growing damp.

He needn’t have worried. Merlin looked into his eyes, a soft smile on his face, and said, “I’m willing.”

Arthur felt his stomach drop, as if he were falling. Merlin’s expression held nothing back, every thought and feeling bared to him. The pure devotion staring back at him made Arthur tremble with a tumult of emotions. He wanted so much, too much, all at once—to gather him close, protect him, and keep that look in his eyes forever; to be the kind of man worthy of what was being offered; to throw him on the bed, strip him naked and ravage him senseless. Instead, he wordlessly tugged Merlin toward the bed, climbed under the blankets and moved to make room, pulling Merlin in afterwards.

They lay on their sides, facing each other. Arthur’s chest grew tight, as if he couldn’t breathe, unable to look away from Merlin’s face, sharp angles casting shadows in the dim light. Merlin leaned over, pressing his lips softly against Arthur’s, lightly touching his tongue to his top lip, catching the small gasp of air. He pulled back then, saying, “You should get some sleep, sire.”

As if the words themselves caused the exhaustion he suddenly felt crashing over him, Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut. “Arthur,” he slurred, already half asleep. “Call me Arthur.”

He felt another soft kiss on his lips, then Merlin moved closer, tucking himself against Arthur’s chest, feet and legs tangling with his own. A quiet, “Good night, Arthur,” was the last thing he heard before sleep overtook him.

Merlin had been in his bed every night since. And there were few that ended as that first night had done. Arthur could never have imagined the sheer pleasure this shift in their relationship would bring. With a look, or a touch, Merlin could have him aching and hungry. He used his fingers, then his mouth to take Arthur apart, leaving him writhing and desperate for release. The first time Merlin slid his cock into Arthur’s arse, Arthur was shaking from the overwhelming sensations, pleasure and pain, Merlin’s sweat slicked body draped across his back, hips pushing into him, and Merlin’s hot breath in his ear, panting, “Arthur, Arthur,” like a prayer.

That same heady arousal was rising as they kissed in his chambers. He could feel it washing over him like a wave, swamping him and pulling him under so he was drowning in a pool of desire. He freed his lips to growl in Merlin’s ear, “I need you inside me.” Then there was the frantic tugging of clothing, the stumbling toward the bed, the slick slide of fingers preparing him, the exquisite burn as Merlin’s cock filled Arthur deep.

The sight before him was beautiful, the tendons of Merlin’s neck taut and straining, lips red and swollen, eyes dark and intense and he leaned over Arthur, thrusting into him. Arthur locked his eyes on Merlin’s, grasping for something to ground him before he broke apart into pieces. Merlin had Arthur’s knee hooked over his elbow, Arthur’s strong thigh bent toward his chest and he leaned over to kiss him, panting into his mouth. “I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you, Arthur. You can let go.” 

Arthur surrendered, giving himself completely to the moment, to Merlin, not thinking of anything but the beautiful boy above him, their bodies joined together, the inferno building between them. Nothing existed but Merlin. Not his loneliness, his heartache, the uncertainty of the future, his doubts and insecurities. When he was here, like this, everything faded away. Morgana, Guinevere, Lancelot, his father—the betrayals and disappointments. He could take them all, deal with them all if he could only have this. This one thing was his, his alone to treasure and keep.

“Merlin,” he practically sobbed, voice breaking on the name as he spiralled to his release.

Yes, he could deal with everything else if he could just have this.

End of Part 1


	2. What Infinite Heart's Ease - PART 2

* * *

  


Arthur surveyed the preparations in the great hall, servants busy and bustling about, decorating for the feast later that evening. Every inch had been cleaned to spotlessness, the walls hung with rich tapestries. Camelot was a prosperous kingdom and these festivities were an ideal opportunity to display her charms. The hunting party, led by Arthur the day before, had met with great success and the kitchens were in the midst of creating elaborate dishes suitable for an occasion such as this.

Or, Arthur amended in his thoughts, an occasion such as this was intended to be. He knew what everyone was expecting this evening—the announcement that he and Princess Elena, daughter of Lord Godwyn, were to be wed. Lord Godwyn was one of Uther’s closest friends and the match was a sensible one. In their fathers’ minds it had all but been decided. The arrangements had been worked out to both parties’ satisfaction—dowry, land, men, protection. All that stood in the way was Arthur’s consent.

He had no real cause not to give it. Strategically, the alliance was a good one. The location of Lord Godwyn’s lands, bordering to the south, gave Camelot additional safeguards were Cenred to eventually attack. Now that Arthur had accepted that he and Guinevere would never have wed, even had her heart not been won by Lancelot, his prior attachment was no longer an impediment. No, Arthur had no logical reason to deny his consent to this union. Yet that was exactly what he planned to do this very afternoon. 

He was procrastinating, he knew. Even though his mind was made up, he didn’t relish the confrontation with his father awaiting him.

A glimpse of dark hair and a flash of red caught his eye and he looked over at the servant who had just entered the hall. His pulse jumped in anticipation of finding Merlin, but it was only one of the girls from the kitchens. Arthur had already been to the stables… to see Gaius… to his own chambers. Merlin was nowhere to be found. He had been avoiding Arthur increasingly more with each day the Princess Elena remained in Camelot.

Elena had turned out far better company than Arthur had hoped. She was beautiful in an unconventional way, with blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin, full pink lips. At first she had seemed awkward and her manners rough, uncomfortable in the finery she wore. A petulant scowl often graced her face. Arthur did his best to be a good host, to give his father’s preference its due, but each encounter was a disaster, every interaction a chore. Being with the Princess Elena wasn’t easy as it had been with Guinevere, or even challenging as it had been with Morgana. Instead, every moment was filled with tedium and frustration while he tried to initiate conversation or show her around Camelot.

That first evening, Arthur had complained loudly to Merlin as he retired for the night.

“I don’t know how my father expects me to marry her when we can’t even hold a conversation.”

Merlin smiled as he helped Arthur with his nightshirt. “Maybe she’s shy. You’ve just met. Once you get to know each other a little better, maybe you’ll find she’s easy to talk to.”

“She’ll barely even look at me. She’s shown no interest in anything I’ve shown her. She hates it here.”

“She might be homesick.”

“Really, Merlin. I couldn’t even get two words out of her at dinner. Not two words.”

“Conversation’s overrated, anyway.”

Arthur snorted. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you—” but his words were cut off as Merlin kissed him soundly, pushing him backward onto the bed, and climbing over him to straddle his hips.

A few breathless moments later, Arthur held Merlin’s face between his hands, thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones as he separated them far enough so that he could stare at Merlin’s flushed face above him, lips swollen, eyes shining deep blue. “I see what you mean,” Arthur said in husky voice, then he tugged Merlin closer to kiss him again.

The following day had been more of the same—awkward interaction and stilted communication. Until they passed the stables.

“Oh, can we go inside?” Arthur looked over in surprise, not having heard that note of excitement in Elena’s voice before.

“Are you sure?” Arthur had asked, looking at her finery and delicate shoes. “You want to see inside the stables? I don’t think the smell will be particularly pleasant.”

“I don’t mind,” Elena had answered.

Arthur certainly wasn’t going to deny her when this was the first sign of interest she had taken in anything since she had arrived.

“Be my guest,” Arthur said, holding the door open and motioning her through.

Her face transformed once she caught sight of the horses. She walked right over to Arthur’s destrier and placed her hand on its nose, stroking gently. 

Arthur was about to warn her to use caution—his mount was notoriously high-spirited and unpredictable for anyone but Arthur himself—but the horse simply stood there, dipping his head into the caress, nickering softly. 

“Aren’t you a beauty,” Elena crooned to the enormous beast.

He wasn’t the only one, Arthur thought as he watched them interact. With a curve to her lips and her eyes sparkling, the Princess Elena’s animated face was truly lovely.

Arthur was startled from his thoughts when she looked up to ask, “Can we go for a ride?”

Once again he looked at her outfit dubiously. “Like that?” he asked. “Can you…what about…” he trailed off, making a motion toward her clothing, not sure what he was trying to say.

“I can manage.”

He studied her eager expression thoughtfully. Why not, he decided. The weather was pleasant and he wouldn’t mind getting out himself.

“Yes, we can do that,” he said. She answered with a blinding smile. “But this one’s mine,” he added, indicating the horse she was currently enamoured with.

“Of course he is,” she agreed. “I expected no less.”

Once they were saddled and astride their mounts, Arthur quickly became aware that Elena was no novice rider; she had obvious skill on a horse. Her guards followed behind at a discreet pace and she kept glancing behind her, kicking her heels to increase speed and put more distance between them. Arthur observed her curiously, and she shot him a mischievous smile as they rode farther and farther from the castle. With one last look back at the guards, she urged her horse into a gallop, racing toward the tree line. Her laughter carried on the wind as Arthur chased after her. He soon overtook her and yelled over his shoulder, “This way,” as he led her through the trees, losing the guards entirely. 

They were both laughing when they finally pulled up to a stop near the side of a stream. Arthur dismounted and helped Elena do so as well, leading the horses to the water’s edge to drink.

“You’ve had some practice with that manoeuvre, I’d wager,” Arthur said.

“I may have used it a time or two.” Her eyes danced with mirth. She was so vibrant like this, so different from the girl he’d dined with the day before.

Unclasping his cloak from around his shoulders, Arthur spread it on the ground over a bed of soft moss.

“Come sit with me.”

Arthur held her hand as she lowered herself to the ground then he sat down beside her.

“What are your thoughts on this marriage?” he asked. He saw no reason to avoid the subject.

She considered his question, a slight furrow forming between her brows. “I am still forming them. And you?”

“That answer suffices for me as well.”

Elena regarded him curiously. “So your mind is not set on the matter?”

“No, not at all.”

“I thought the decision was all but made.”

“Maybe in our fathers’ minds...”

“But not in yours?”

“No, not in mine,” Arthur answered. He was grateful when she didn’t push for his reasoning. His mind was conflicted enough without having to try to put his thoughts into words. Once he had acknowledged that he and Guinevere would never have married and his eventual union would be prescribed by duty, he knew he had no real reason to refuse what Uther felt was best for Camelot. Yet still, he resisted.

When they returned to Camelot and he watched his manservant’s face fall as Arthur helped a laughing Elena dismount from her horse, he understood why.

“So don’t you want to know how it went with Elena today?” he asked as Merlin helped him change for the night.

Merlin stiffened. “I’m assuming much better since you returned from your ride—which you were on _all day_ —smiling and laughing. And also with how well you seemed to get on at dinner.”

“We did. You were right, Merlin. We just needed to get to know each other to get past that initial shyness. She’s actually very easy to talk to. Quite lovely.”

Merlin’s movements were becoming more abrupt and jerky as he tugged at Arthur’s tunic and pulled the nightshirt over his head. “How lucky for you,” Merlin said in a tone of voice that didn’t sound as if he wished him any luck at all.

“Indeed.”

Arthur let Merlin stew for a few moments, watching his obvious jealousy with fond amusement as he stalked about the room.

Finally, he relented, walking over to Merlin, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the bed. He tugged the boy into his lap, nuzzling his face into his neck.

“She was excellent company,” Arthur mouthed again his skin.

“So you’ve said,” Merlin said, growing breathless.

“My father wants me to marry her.”

Merlin stiffened again and tried to pull away, but Arthur kept him firmly in place. He continued to mouth at his neck, kissing and sucking, moving to that spot behind his ear and biting down, leaving a familiar mark. He leaned back to examine it and felt a surge of lust at the sight before him—Merlin’s eyes dark, lips parted, purplish bruise forming on his skin.

“I prefer your company,” he said, voice deep and rough.

Visibly softening, Merlin leaned forward to kiss him, tangling his fingers in Arthur’s hair, dipping his tongue into his mouth. Arthur fell backward on the bed, pulling Merlin with him so he was sprawled across his chest. After a few moments, Merlin lifted his head to look at Arthur.

“Are you going to marry her?” he asked. Arthur felt something in his chest constrict as he stared at Merlin’s serious expression.

“I don’t know. What would you think if I did?”

“You’re the heir to the throne, the next king of Camelot. I’ve always known you would marry one day.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Merlin pushed himself up off Arthur chest and rolled off him, sitting up beside him on the bed. He rubbed his hands across his face.

“What do you want me to say, Arthur?”

“I want you to tell me the truth, that’s all.” Arthur sat up then, crossing his legs, reaching over to take Merlin’s hands in his.

“What do you really think about this marriage? I want to know.”

Merlin tried to pull his hands away, but Arthur held fast.

“Talk to me. I hope you know by now you can tell me anything.”

Merlin’s eyes darted up then he looked back down quickly, staring at their joined hands. Arthur stroked the top of his hand with his thumb and waited.

After a long pause, Merlin whispered, “I hate it.”

Arthur’s stomach twisted, a tender heat forming in his gut. His hands tightened their grip on Merlin’s.

“And…” Merlin continued.

“And?” Arthur prompted, his voice quiet and gentle.

“I just didn’t think it’d be this soon.”

Arthur stroked Merlin’s hand with his thumb again, not sure what to say. His heart wanted to make promises his head might not be able to keep. Would he always feel torn in a million directions? Is this what it meant to be king? He lifted a hand and sunk it into the dark hair atop the bowed head before him, then he slid it down to the back of Merlin’s neck, tugging him closer until he had pulled him right into his lap.

“All right,” he said. “Thank you. That’s what I wanted to know.”

Merlin buried his face in Arthur’s chest and snaked his arms around his waist. “Can we stop talking about this?” he asked against Arthur’s shirt.

“Yes, all right,” Arthur said softly as he tilted Merlin’s face up to his, breath catching at the bright shine in Merlin’s eyes, the light reflecting on the moisture pooling there. He leaned closer to kiss Merlin’s eyelids, tongue tasting the tear that squeezed out of the corner of his eye as Merlin’s lids drifted closed. Then his mouth found Merlin’s and their kisses turned hot and desperate as they fell back on the bed, tangled together again.

Arthur and Elena repeated their previous day’s adventure over the next few days. By the third day the guards were barely even trying to keep up, obviously used to their charge’s elusive methods.

“Have you given any more thought to the matter at hand?” Arthur asked.

Elena smiled. “The matter at hand,” she mused. “You mean committing myself to a life by your side as the future Queen of Camelot?”

Arthur laughed. “That would be the matter to which I refer, yes.”

She cocked her head as if giving it due consideration. “Well, you are not unpleasing to the eyes.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said with mock seriousness.

“And your company is not nearly as insufferable as I first feared.”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “Thank you again. I think.”

Elena turned her head to Arthur and gave him a smile, but didn’t say more.

“Is that all you have to say? Somehow I was expecting a ‘but’ to follow.”

She looked away and plucked a wildflower growing nearby; one by one she began to pull off its petals.

“I know I have little say in these matters. My match will be made according to my father’s wishes, what he feels will benefit our kingdom the most. A part of me thinks I’m a fool not to jump at the chance to be your bride.” She tilted her head, giving Arthur another smile. 

He studied her full lips and the graceful line of her neck, watched her long elegant fingers as they shredded the blossom in her hands. He imagined kissing her, pressing his lips against hers, feeling the softness of her body against his own. He did feel affection, and the beginnings of a strong friendship. That was more than many had in matters of marriage, he knew. Yet he felt no heat, no passion, and the face that kept appearing in his mind’s eye, the lips he longed to feel under his own, did not belong to the girl beside him.

“After all,” Elena added, “there’s no guarantee that my next offer will be half as promising.” She paused.

“But,” Arthur interjected, urging her to continue.

“Ah yes. This is where the ‘but’ comes in.”

Arthur waited.

“But I’m not ready,” she said. “It’s too soon. I’m not ready for the responsibility it would mean, to have children… to give up riding every day.” Her eyes glanced over at the horses by the stream and he saw a longing and a passion that didn’t come anywhere close to matching the affection she may have felt when she looked at him. 

Arthur was struck by how similar her words were to the ones Merlin had spoken earlier. In truth, Arthur felt the same. His father was not an old man and in good health. It would be a long time before Arthur was king. Why should he rush into marriage? He turned, studying Elena’s profile, and was struck by how young she was, just a girl really. Despite the womanly curves of her figure, her face held the dreams of a youth, a passion for horses, not seeking the love of a mate. 

More importantly, there was Merlin. Arthur was unwilling to give him up. This thing they had between them was new, fragile. He wanted to protect it, keep it safe, give it room to flourish and grow. A familiar warmth bloomed under his skin as he thought of Merlin, pale and beautiful with a cheeky grin and eyes that sparkled with something that looked like love.

Was it too soon to call it love? Was it even fair to voice such thoughts when he knew what his duty would eventually require? He didn’t know. He only knew he was happier than he could ever remember being, even with Guinevere. He wanted to keep the sadness from Merlin’s eyes, make him laugh, hold him close and melt into his skin. He wanted this enough to fight for it, for at least a little while longer.

“All right,” Arthur said, breaking the silence. “I’ll tell my father I do not consent to the match.”

“You will?” Elena looked up, shocked, as if she hadn’t expected such a response.

“I will. It’s not that I find the prospect unpleasant.” He gave Elena a smile. “But should we settle for less than love? My father married for love. That’s an argument I hope he’ll understand.”

Her lips curled into a smile. “You’re a romantic. I would not have guessed such.”

Arthur laughed and looked down, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I would not have imagined such a thing myself,” he confessed.

“Oh?” she asked, intrigued.

Arthur shook his head, unwilling to say more. He was grateful when she didn’t press the issue. He hardly knew how to explain it to himself, let alone to someone else.

The confrontation with his father went much as he expected. Uther railed about duty and the “good of Camelot.” Arthur, contrary to what he had said to Elena, knew the idea of love would be inconsequential and had other arguments at the ready. Lord Godwyn was already their ally. A marriage to Elena would not further Camelot’s aims. Such a union would close an avenue that might one day prove beneficial should the possibility of a new alliance present itself. Once Arthur had convinced Uther the decision was mutual, and that they would both be amenable to reopening the discussion some time in the future, Uther relented.

The feast was to carry on as planned, a celebration of the alliance already in place between Camelot and Lord Godwyn. No mention of the anticipated engagement would be made. Arthur had still been unable to find Merlin, having looked everywhere before the feast, anxious to tell him of his decision, to kiss a smile back in his eyes. When he finally appeared as the meal got underway, leaning over to fill Arthur’s cup with wine, Arthur looked up and said, “I looked for you earlier. Where have you been all day?”

“I was helping prepare for tonight.” Merlin wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“But I wanted to talk to you before this evening.”

“I’m sure it can keep until later.” 

“It really can’t—” Arthur began, but he stopped short when he saw Merlin being summoned by Lord Godwyn, staring pointedly at the pitcher of wine Merlin was holding, his cup held aloft. He sighed in frustration as Merlin gave a clipped, “Excuse me, my lord,” before escaping the conversation.

Merlin avoided him the rest of the meal, directing the other servants to keep Arthur’s cup full, making sure to never come close enough for Arthur to speak with him again. Arthur wanted to demand Merlin attend him properly, but he knew his father wouldn’t tolerate any sort of scene, especially as Uther had barely agreed to forego the engagement. Elena, at least, continued to be fine company. Yet Arthur knew that each smile they shared only served to injure Merlin further. He couldn’t wait for the feast to be over and have Merlin to himself in his chambers again.

There was still the entertainment to get through, however. Normally, Arthur enjoyed this part of a feast—the music, the performers, the comedy. He loved seeing Merlin’s childlike delight as he watched the troubadours and acrobats. Tonight there were no smiles from his manservant; he stood against the wall, face sullen and miserable, as if this was the last place on earth he wanted to be. Arthur would have thought he’d have surmised by now there would be no announcement. He tried once more to catch Merlin’s eye, but Merlin steadfastly refused to look even once in his direction. 

Arthur was readying to make his excuses to Elena and confront Merlin, convinced the rest of the court was busy enjoying the entertainment and wouldn’t notice if he slipped out for a few moments, when his eye was caught by one of the performers. The man was juggling fire, quite impressively, the flames at the end of his torches circling through the air higher and higher. As Arthur watched, the flames seemed to grow, and then they were hurtling across the hall as if being blasted from a dragon’s mouth. With horror, he saw a guard engulfed in flames. The man dropped to the ground, screaming while rolling to try and put out the blaze. 

The hall erupted in panic, benches being pushed back, people falling over each other as they tried to escape. Arthur grabbed Elena and pushed her under the table. “Stay down,” he commanded, barely registering her wide eyes and nod of acknowledgment as he assessed the scene. Then he pulled a sword from the scabbard of one of the guards, having only brought a knife to the feast, and vaulted over the table to attack the fire thrower who was readying another blast. He dived as flame was thrown directly at him, feeling the raw heat as it roared past, narrowly missing him. Then he was back up in one graceful move, striking at the man and felling him with one blow.

He whirled around and saw men in skirmishes everywhere. His knights had entered the fray and the room was a confusion of weapon flashes and magic bursts. Arthur wondered just how many sorcerers they were dealing with. He dodged again as another blast flew by and he tried to make out where the attack had come from through the thick smoke rapidly filling the room.

With a roar, Arthur leapt at a figure whose hand was raised and eyes glowed with an unearthly fire, slicing him through before he was able to fire off another spell. Then suddenly, it was as if the entire room was alight; a bright white flash, larger than anything that had come before, blinded him, accompanied by the crack of a powerful spell which left his ears ringing. Arthur blinked, trying to get his vision to adjust, ghost lights still dancing in front of his eyes. When he could finally see clearly again, his blood ran cold at the sight before him.

Merlin stood in the centre of the hall, eyes glowing gold, his hand held out in front of him. Arthur’s eyes followed the path of his arm and saw his father lying on the floor, his chest charred black from the force of a spellblast.

Shock and betrayal thundered through him, and a host of other emotions too tumultuous to name, but rage and grief most certainly among them. Arthur crossed the room in seconds and brought the hilt of his sword up, slamming it into the side of Merlin’s head. He crumpled to the group without a sound. Arthur hardened his heart against the look that flashed in Merlin’s eyes—eyes he barely recognized, the unnatural gold dimming to blue just before the lids dropped closed. Breathing heavily, Arthur brought the point of his sword to Merlin’s throat where he lay unconscious on the ground and held it poised, pressing into his flesh, hands gripping the hilt so hard his knuckles turned white. He watched as the skin split beneath the tip of the sharp blade and blood began to seep from the cut, trickling down the sides of Merlin’s pale white neck, staining it with red.

“Arthur—” 

He felt someone pulling at his arm, but shrugged the hand off.

“Arthur,” the voice repeated, urgent and intent, “you don’t want to do this.”

He spun to face the one who dared to interfere and noted with satisfaction the slight step back Gwaine took when faced with his raw fury. But then Gwaine’s features set stubbornly and he gripped Arthur’s arm again.

“You don’t want to do this,” he repeated.

They stared at each other in silence. Arthur was dimly aware of the others surrounding them, a few still struggling to subdue the last of their attackers, but most with their eyes riveted on the scene before them. Arthur’s chest heaved as he tried to rein in his volatile emotions. After a tense moment, he shook off Gwaine’s hand again, and turned to stare at Merlin, bringing the tip of his sword to his throat once again. He catalogued the raven dark hair, parchment white skin, the crimson stain against his throat. The blood continued to flow, a heavy drop sliding down Merlin’s neck and over the small purple bruise behind his ear. Arthur shut his eyes, shielding his heart from the onlookers as the rush of recognition was almost too painful to bear. Taking several deep breaths he steeled himself against the heartbreak threatening to undo him from within. When he opened his eyes, he pulled the sword back, tossing it to the ground with a clatter.

“Take him to the dungeons,” Arthur commanded, voice cold. He didn’t wait for his guards’ compliance before rushing to Uther’s body and kneeling by his side. Pressing his fingers to his father’s throat, Arthur didn’t need the stillness beneath them to tell him what he already knew: The King of Camelot was dead.

-o-

“Come,” Arthur barked in response to the knock on his door. He had retreated to his chambers in the aftermath of the attack on the great hall, needing respite from the sudden crushing weight of responsibility. There had been his father’s body to contend with; preparations were already underway for his burial. Arthur couldn’t even think about Uther being gone; he had no time to mourn just yet. In addition, an investigation into the attack was underway. Leon had been left in charge of discovering as many details about their identities and motives as he was able. His men had been remarkably efficient, leaving not a single sorcerer alive. Save Merlin, of course. Arthur especially wasn’t prepared to face decisions regarding him.

“Sire?” Arthur stiffened, identifying the voice. His barely suppressed rage rose to the surface.

“Did you know?” he asked, whirling around to face Gaius, voice accusing.

“Did I know?”

“Yes. Did you know?” His words were measured and careful, holding a warning, as he advanced on Gaius.

“Know what, sire?” Gaius asked.

“Don’t play that game with me. You know exactly what I’m asking. Did you know Merlin was a sorcerer?”

Gaius hesitated, considering his answer. Arthur could see the thoughts playing out over his face as he weighed his possible responses. Finally, he sighed, shoulders drooping and said, “Yes. I knew.”

“Get out.”

“Sire, I have things I must discuss with you. About the attack. Merlin isn’t—”

“I said get out. Because you were my father’s friend, I will not have you banished from Camelot. But if I were you, I would stay out of sight for the foreseeable future.”

“Sire, this is important. You must listen. Merlin—”

“I said get out,” Arthur roared. “Or I will have you thrown in the dungeons with Merlin and have you tried for treason. Do you understand me?”

Gaius hesitated, then said, “Yes, sire,” before bowing and leaving the room.

Arthur sighed and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed, head bowed. His hands were trembling with anger. Arthur took a few deep breaths trying to calm down. He needed a clear head to deal with what he still needed to face. Merlin.

-o-

Merlin groaned, blinking in the dim light. His head throbbed and he felt as if he were bruised all over. Everything hurt. He wasn’t even sure where he was. The ground was cold and the air felt damp. He could make out the dirt floor, but nothing else was familiar. Struggling to sit up, he groaned again as the throbbing in his skull intensified. A wave of nausea overtook him and he gagged, bile rising in his throat. He slumped back down on the ground, waiting for the urge to be sick to pass. Merlin raised a shaky hand to his head, pressing it to his temple and winced at the tenderness. What had happened to him?

Everything came rushing back at once—the flames roaring through the great hall, entertainers dropping their guises to reveal a group of sorcerers bent on destruction. The chaos and smoke had caused him to lose sight of Arthur temporarily, but he did his best to keep whomever he could safe while the fighting was ongoing. His heart plummeted when he saw a sorcerer across the hall taking direct aim at the king. There was no one even close enough to potentially stop him. 

Merlin had no time at all to think, not if he wanted to save Uther. His chest felt hollow knowing a lifetime of hiding was coming to an end. He had little hope for a favourable outcome once his long-held secret was revealed, and already despair was settling into his bones. This wasn’t how he wanted Arthur to find out, not like this. He had no other choice, however. Not one he’d be able to live with, anyway. His eyes flashed gold as he ran to the centre of the hall and extended his hand, the ancient words tripping from his tongue like the names of old friends. He realized immediately that he was probably too late. His spell flew across the room to meet the one already in motion, but before it could reach its target, he saw the force of the sorcerer’s blast send Uther reeling. Then the hall was lit up as bright as the sun as the two spells collided, the force filling the air with the clap of thunder. The other blast died away as its wielder absorbed the shock of Merlin’s magic, then he crumpled to the ground where he lay unmoving.

Before Merlin could even lower his arm he saw Arthur, his beautiful Arthur with a look on his face he would never forget—betrayal, anguish, grief, anger—and the despair took root, turning his bones to lead. He didn’t even try to defend himself as the hilt of Arthur’s sword connected with his temple, robbing him of consciousness.

As the memories rushed back, the bile rose in his throat and he leaned over, retching onto the ground, his head throbbing anew from the exertion. He rolled away from his sick, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, eyes stinging from tears. Now that he had remembered the events from earlier, his location was no longer a mystery. He was in Camelot’s dungeons.

What that meant he was still unsure of, but from the look in Arthur’s eyes, a look that made his stomach twist just thinking of it, he knew with certainty any previous feelings Arthur held for him had been destroyed in a single moment. He curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his aching head, and wept.

Some time later—he wasn’t sure how long he had lain there drifting in and out of consciousness—he heard voices nearby. Then he heard the creak of hinges as his cell door was opened. He squinted, lifting his head toward the sound and groaned at the pain that shot through him from the movement.

“Merlin?” Gaius knelt beside him, gently gripping his shoulder.

“Gaius?”

“Here, I’ve brought you some medicine for your head. Can you sit up?”

“I think so.” Merlin struggled upright, aided by Gaius’ arm around his shoulder. He felt the bile rising again as a wave of nausea overtook him and he leaned over, gagging, swallowing rapidly at the saliva pooling in his mouth.

“Poor boy,” Gaius murmured. “See if you can drink this. It will help you feel better.” Gaius held a small phial to his lips and Merlin reached up a shaky hand, swallowing down the bitter liquid.

“Lie down again. Give it a few minutes.” Gaius helped Merlin back down and gently pet his hair while he waited for the medicine to take effect. Soon the throbbing in his head turned to a dull ache and his stomach stopped roiling.

Gaius helped him sit up again, and he moved so his back was against the wall.

“Dear boy. I always feared you’d grow careless and your secret would be revealed one day, but I never imagined it would happen in quite so dramatic a fashion.”

Merlin gave a weak chuckle. “You know me. Always full of surprises.”

“I do know you,” Gaius said in a fond voice.

“How bad is it?” Merlin asked.

Gaius’ face sobered. “Bad.”

Merlin nodded. He expected as much.

“The entire court saw you kill King Uther with magic.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shhhh,” Gaius cut in. “I know. Of course you didn’t. But that’s how it appears. And that’s how it appeared to Arthur as well.”

Merlin closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “What is he going to do?” he whispered.

Gaius didn’t answer.

Merlin picked his head back up to look at Gaius. “Gaius?”

“What can he do? You know the laws. I had hoped…” Gaius sighed.

Merlin didn’t need him to finish. He knew what Gaius was thinking. Merlin had also hoped things might one day be different for magic users. That one day, he’d be able to tell Arthur everything and Arthur would care for him enough he’d forgive him for lying all those years. That he’d even change the laws. Those dreams seemed like the romantic notions of a child now. Arthur would never forgive him; he apparently was even willing to send him to his death. Merlin shivered, feeling empty, hollow; he wasn’t sure he was even capable of more tears.

“When will it take place?”

“Two days from now. Tomorrow Uther will be laid to rest and Arthur will be crowned. A more formal coronation ceremony will take place at a future date, of course, but he will take his oath tomorrow. Then on the following morning you’re to be executed.”

Merlin winced. “Two days. That’s not much time.” 

“You will not be here, of course.”

Merlin looked over in surprise. “What?”

Gaius gave him an exasperated look. “Merlin, I’m going to assume that’s the concussion talking. You are to use your magic to escape. When they come to bring you to the pyre, this cell will be empty.”

“But how…”

“In whatever way possible. You’re the most powerful sorcerer this land has ever seen. I believe you have a great destiny. I had thought yours and Arthur’s were inextricably entwined—and perhaps that still may come to pass—but you will not die on the pyre two days hence.”

Merlin gave a small smile. “You seem pretty sure about that.” He wished he could feel such conviction. Right now, he was having a difficult time believing he had anything left to live for at all.

“I am. Now listen to me. We haven’t much time.”

“All right.”

“One of the sorcerers who died in the hall—I believe him to be the one who struck Uther down—was a man named Alvarr.”

“Alvarr. The name sounds familiar.”

“It should. He was a druid. He’d often come to see me when he was in Camelot. We traded on many an occasion.”

“Why would he kill Uther? Because of all the recent attacks?”

“That I do not know. But I do have this.” Gaius reached in his robes to pull out an object from one of his pockets. He reached for Merlin’s hand and placed the item in his palm. Merlin brought it closer to his face to examine it.

“That’s Morgana’s ring.”

“Alvarr was wearing it.’

Merlin whipped his head up, then groaned at the sudden movement. “What was Alvarr doing with Morgana’s ring? Does that mean she’s living with the druids? Or that she’s behind the attack today? She did try to kill Uther once before.”

“Both are possible. There’s something about Morgana I’ve never told you. A secret I swore not to tell.”

“I already know.”

“No, I don’t think that you do.” He shook his head. “Not about this. Morgana and Alvarr were acquainted. She made it a point to visit me whenever he was in Camelot to trade. I never discouraged it, thinking it was good for her to know other magic users, to become familiar with the druids. I thought it was beneficial for her to have connections to others of her kind, just in case.”

“I can understand that.”

“Yes, well, I was unaware of just how close they had grown.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean, Merlin, is that when Morgana left Camelot, she was with child.”

-o-

When Merlin opened his eyes again, he felt the presence of someone in the room with him.

“Gaius?”

There was no answer. He struggled to a sitting position, taking a moment to wait for the nausea to subside. The medicine he had taken earlier was largely still in effect, but his head ached and his stomach hadn’t fully settled. 

“Who’s there?” he asked, squinting into the darkness.

He saw the vague outline of a figure shift in the darkened corner of the cell, concealed by shadow.

“Who are you?”

The figure moved, taking a step into the dimly lit room.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasped.

Arthur remained silent.

His expression was dark, thunderous, and was one Merlin had never seen him wear before. He was almost unrecognizable. For the first time in his life, Merlin felt afraid of Arthur.

“Arthur, I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice cracking with emotion.

Merlin hadn’t thought it possible, but he watched as Arthur’s expression twisted into something even more ugly—full of hatred and rage. 

Arthur surged toward him and he cowered away, scurrying like a crab until his back touched the wall and he could go no farther.

He pressed against the hard stones as Arthur’s hand reached out, grabbing him around his throat. Then he was being bodily lifted by his neck; he struggled to get his feet under him, his hands scrabbling on the wall behind to help him gain his balance so he wasn’t dangling like a puppet from Arthur’s fist. The wound at his neck, which Gaius had treated before he left, split back open. The sharp pain barely registered over his overwhelming despair and heartbreak.

“You’re sorry?” Arthur voice was soft and menacing, face inches from his own. “For what, exactly? For lying to me? For using me to get closer to the king? For killing my father?” His voice grew increasingly louder with each word spoken until the last question was a roar.

Merlin couldn’t speak. Arthur’s fingers around his throat pressed against his windpipe; waves of emotion crashed over him like the pounding surf, each question smashing into him like a fist. He tried to shake his head, but Arthur’s grip was too tight. Tears leaked from his eyes and slid down his cheeks.

Arthur’s hand closed tighter, pressing harder, making it impossible for Merlin to breathe. He could feel the trickle of blood slipping down his throat, soaking into the neckline of his shirt.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now.” His hand squeezed even harder. Merlin reached up to try and pry Arthur’s fingers from his throat. His head spun and spots started dancing before his eyes as his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. “Why shouldn’t I just choke the life right out of you? Rid the world of one more sorcerer. Tell me, Merlin. Why shouldn’t I just kill you now?” Again Arthur ended on a yell, shaking Merlin, knocking his head backward on the stone. His body was limp, flailing like a rag doll.

Just as he was beginning to black out, Arthur let out a growl, then threw him to the floor, releasing him. He landed hard, feeling the impact on his shoulder and hip, knocking his head against the ground again. Merlin lay gasping, shaken, trying to fill his lungs with air. 

Arthur was pacing now, hands clenching and unclenching. Merlin was afraid to move, not wanting to call attention to himself. The blood seeping from his throat tickled, but he didn’t dare try to staunch its flow or wipe it away. This was an Arthur he had never seen, not even on the battlefield against his greatest enemies. Gaius had told him Arthur was crazed with anger and grief, unreasonable and unwilling to even hear about Alvarr and Morgana’s possible connection, but Merlin could never have imagined the man he saw before him.

Then Arthur was down on one knee next to him, leaning in. His voice was soft, seductive. “Have you nothing to say, Merlin?” He reached out his hand and Merlin flinched, but Arthur’s touch was gentle as he trailed a finger down the side of his cheek, rubbing it across Merlin’s lower lip. “No pretty words to seduce me with? You don’t want to offer to suck my cock with that gorgeous mouth of yours, beg for leniency?”

Merlin lay unmoving, breath hitching as the tears rolled down his cheeks. He almost wished that Arthur had killed him, so he wouldn’t have to see him like this. 

“Are those tears I see?” Arthur moved his finger to the corner of Merlin’s eye and slid it down the side of his nose. “Very impressive. But I suppose it should be no surprise. You were quite the expert at your little game. I never suspected a thing.” Merlin’s tears fell even harder. “You had me right where you wanted me. The Prince of Camelot at your command. I’d have done almost anything for you. I was even willing to give up my duty.” His hand still roamed Merlin’s face, gently, tenderly, fingers stroking his cheeks, as if of their own volition, disconnected from the cruel words coming from Arthur’s mouth. “I even imagined I l—” his voice cracked as he spoke the words and the cold harsh mask dropped for just a moment. Merlin felt his insides being sucked dry at the bleak hopeless look in Arthur’s eyes, desolate, so full of pain and loss he felt the echo in his own. Then the mask was back in place; his hand withdrew from Merlin’s skin. 

Arthur stood up and turned his back to Merlin. The silence stretched on. Merlin just wanted him to leave, so he could fall apart in peace, mourn the loss of the most precious thing he’d ever known.

“Haven’t you anything at all to say?” Arthur question broke the silence. The words sounded as if they were being torn from his throat. Merlin wondered if he imagined the tremour in his voice, the shaking of his shoulders. He almost thought he must be weeping. Merlin wanted nothing more than to pull his aching body from the ground, wrap his arms around his prince and hold him close. That he was the reason for the look he’d seen in Arthur’s eyes made him ache unbearably. 

Knowing this might be the last chance he’d have to speak to Arthur, Merlin forced himself upright. He had to let Arthur know how he felt.

“I didn’t kill your father,” he began. Arthur’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t move. Merlin continued when he realized Arthur was listening, letting him speak. “I was trying to stop another sorcerer’s attack, but I was too late. I’m sorry I never told you. I wanted to. So many times…” he paused, his own voice breaking. “I was afraid. That you wouldn’t be able to forgive me. That I’d have to go.” He was openly weeping now, the words coming out between sobs. “That I’d lose you.”

He took a deep shuddering breath, trying to get back under control. He had more to say, more he needed Arthur to know. “It wasn’t a game. I told you that before. It was never a game.” He paused again, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my magic. I’ve only ever used it to protect you. I would never hurt you, Arthur. Never. I love you. You’re my prince… my king. Everything I am is in service to you.”

Arthur whirled around and Merlin could see the faint light shining against the dampness of his cheeks. “Why should I believe you?” he cried. “You’ve been lying to me for years.”

Merlin had no answer for him.

-o-

The castle was quiet as Arthur sat vigil. All day people had been coming to pay their respects, to bid farewell to the king. Uther had been unyielding in many ways, but his people loved him. Camelot had thrived under his leadership.

Now Arthur was finally alone with his father. He studied the face of the man whose boots he was meant to fill. Uther looked older in death, his years mapping lines on his face, but he was still far too young a man to be lying there, cold and motionless. He appeared smaller somehow, too. Arthur had always thought of his father as an imposing man, broad and strong, but looking at him now he seemed no larger than Arthur himself. Indeed, he had never given it much thought, but Arthur realized the last time they spoke, he and his father had stood eye to eye.

“I wish…” Arthur said, trailing off, reaching out his hand to touch Uther, then drawing it back.

His father could no longer hear him, he knew. And of wishes, he had far too many. Regrets as well. He wished he could have made his father proud. All his life he had sought his approval, strived to be the kind of man, the kind of leader, his father would respect. Yet he always fell short, never once felt as if he measured up. And now he’d never have the chance to prove himself. 

He wished he had more time. Recent conversations, now tainted by heartbreak and bitterness, weighed heavy in his mind. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to be king. Wasn’t ready to have everyone relying on him, expecting him to know the best course of action. He wasn’t ready to have the weight of the kingdom falling on his shoulders. 

Wasn’t ready to make the hard decisions.

“I wish you could tell me what to do, Father,” he whispered.

But there was no answer.

Arthur allowed himself to feel the grief he had been holding back all day. The shock of seeing his father lying on the ground, his chest charred, eyes blank. The heartbreak and betrayal of discovering Merlin was not the man he thought he knew. If he opened the door to his emotions even the smallest crack, he had no doubt they would come cascading through, too powerful to be contained. Trying to hold himself together while facing Merlin had been difficult enough; he couldn’t keep his pain at bay any longer. His chest felt like it was being ripped opened up from the inside as the anguish of the day tore through him. He leaned over his father’s body, wrapping his arms around his cold still form, laid his head on Uther’s chest and wept. 

He had never felt more alone.

-o-

Merlin didn’t want to move the next time he awoke. His throbbing head, the sharp sting at this throat, his bruised neck, surely marked by the fingers that had been so tightly wrapped around it, these pains couldn’t compare to the ache in his heart. He didn’t even open his eyes, not wanting to see the dim light of his dungeon cell and be reminded of where he was, the events that had brought him here.

His magic was formidable, he knew. He could feel it thrumming under his skin, reaching out to touch the universe around him, dancing over the physical space, slipping through the world’s unoccupied spaces like water in a jar of pebbles. It instinctively recognized the inherent power in the earth and the sky, the water and the breeze, in all living things. Just how powerful it was he didn’t know, but Merlin was tempted to test it, wondering if it was strong enough to turn back time. He could hear Gaius’ voice in his head, chiding him for even considering such a notion. He knew, of course, the madness in such an idea, the inherent dangers, the possibility of rending reality wide open; nonetheless, the ache of loss was too unbearable in the now to not want to attempt anything possible to take the hurt away. 

To go back to a time when Arthur still loved him.

Knowing Arthur had felt that way about him—there was no mistaking what Arthur had been about to say—made the loss even harder to bear. Arthur was a physical man, not given to discussions about his feelings. If he was angry, he lashed out. If he was happy, he laughed. The way Arthur had surrendered himself to Merlin when they were together, so trustingly, so completely, made Merlin think Arthur’s affections must be as strong as his own, but it was nothing they had ever talked about. Merlin read his feeling in the touch of his hand, the kisses from his lips, the press of his body against his own, the nip of his teeth against his skin. He had wondered, and hoped, attributing probably more than was wise to these physical displays, but Arthur kept so much bottled up inside; Merlin had never known for sure.

That this was the manner in which he found out the extent to which Arthur had cared was heartbreaking on its own. To learn it at the same time he lost Arthur forever was devastating.

Merlin reached up to his neck and pressed his finger against the bruise behind his ear, feeling the dull ache. He clung to this tangible reminder of what they had shared; Arthur’s mark proved it had once been real. Already, it was almost impossible to remember when the only thing he could see behind his closed lids was Arthur’s face, twisted with hatred.

He pressed harder, as if he could permanently imprint the mark upon his skin. It would begin to fade in a few days, he knew. The thought filled him with an overwhelming sadness. Despondent, he curled tighter in on himself, tears squeezing themselves out of the corner of his eyes, and he pressed again, and again. And again.

-o-

Arthur stared out the window in the fading light. Below in the courtyard he could see the stand for the pyre, wood piled high all around. Over the years, he had seen many a sorcerer burn, but never before had the flames been intended for someone he knew. He rubbed his arms, suddenly chilled, feeling the goose pimples on his flesh, even though the night was warm. Arthur hadn’t allowed thoughts of Merlin to enter his mind during the events of the day. Going on too little sleep and too high emotion, he knew he’d be unable to think rationally. First he had to get through his father’s funeral. Having sat vigil with him the evening before, purging his emotions during the long night, Arthur was able to maintain his composure during the service, speaking stoically about his father’s reign to those who had gathered. He accepted the condolences offered, and tried not to think about all the people who were not there to stand next to him.

More difficult to endure had been the afternoon when he stood before his knights and the members of the court and swore his oath as King of Camelot, promising to serve and protect, to defend the land and her people from all their enemies. He felt like a fraud as the heavy crown was placed on his head and everyone knelt before him, paying homage and pledging their allegiance. He was only a man, not unlike any other. Yes, he had been raised and trained to don the mantle of leadership from an early age, but he knew it was only an accident of birth that placed him in this position. What, after all, made him more qualified to rule than anyone else? He felt unworthy.

And now… now that the ceremonial obligations were out of the way, he had to face his first act as king: putting to death the sorcerer who had murdered his father. Consigning his former lover to the flames. 

Sending Merlin to burn.

The thought of Merlin, with his sweet smiles and adoring looks, roasting on the pyre made him sick. He was probably the worst kind of fool to be swayed by sentiment, but he had no idea how he’d be able to go through with the execution on the morrow. Bile rose in his throat just imaging it. His anger, although still raw and present, had at some point receded to the background to be overtaken by despair. He felt helpless, bound by duty.

Arthur closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window frame. His chest ached. He couldn’t reconcile the boy who had slipped under his defences and stolen his heart with the being he saw in the great hall, hand outstretched, eyes glowing with unnatural power. He wanted to believe the words he was told in the dungeon—that Merlin was innocent of his accused crime. But even if that were the case, his magic was indisputable. How could he be trusted when he had been lying to Arthur for years?

With Morgana’s troubled past always on his mind, Arthur had harboured grandiose dreams of how things might be different once he became king. He imagined he’d gradually change the laws, easing up on the restrictions against magic. Perhaps making Camelot a place Morgana could one day once again call home. Although he couldn’t argue with the prosperity and peace his father had brought to Camelot, he had never agreed with Uther’s unforgiving stance. Yet time was against him. The laws in place were the ones by which he must abide. Even if he wanted to offer Merlin leniency, the circumstances made that impossible. Too many people were convinced of what they had seen; he could not let the act go unpunished.

Indeed, he had been convinced himself. When he went down to the dungeons to confront Merlin, he was driven by rage, sure that Merlin had made a fool of him by lying to him for years, seducing him in order to get closer to the king. He had been certain Merlin had cast the spell that brought Uther down. His feeling of betrayal, having witnessed Merlin’s perfidy with his own eyes, was compounded by a deep hurt he had yet to examine too closely. He was all too aware of how completely he had surrendered to this boy who was not what he seemed. 

But now Arthur was beset by doubts. Merlin’s tears, which he had tried to harden his heart against, were persuasive. The stricken expression, the look of despair is his eyes, felt an echo of his own. Arthur had no idea any longer what was truth and what was false. After Morgana, Guinevere, Lancelot… his own judgment was suspect. And Merlin himself had confirmed how obtuse he had been. 

The light continued to fade, and the objects in the courtyard became more difficult to make out in growing darkness. In contrast, the thoughts in Arthur’s head were slowly crystallizing into sharpness. If his father knew what he was about to do, his disappointment would be greater than any he had shown while he was still living. Arthur knew he was likely betraying his oath to Camelot in his very first hours of reign. But he couldn’t go through with the execution. He could not. If there was the slightest chance Merlin had been telling the truth, he couldn’t condemn him to the fire. Arthur gave himself a moment to indulge in one of the many happy memories he had of Merlin—laughing and falling backward on the bed, pulling Merlin on top of his chest, smiling up into his shining blue eyes. His throat tightened and tears stung at the corner of his eyes. It couldn’t all have been a lie, could it? 

Arthur shook his head, refusing to dwell on the loss. There’d be time enough ahead of him to mourn, a lifetime without Merlin to brighten his days. Even if it had been a lie, if Merlin was a master manipulator who’d had him fooled the entire time, even if this decision was one he'd regret later, if Merlin returned one day to complete his revenge and his kingdom fell to ruins around his feet, even if Merlin truly was the assassin he appeared, Arthur still could not put him to his death. He had no idea how strong Merlin’s magic was, what exactly he was capable of. Arthur hoped he already had plans underway to escape from Camelot’s dungeons. But even were he not able, Arthur path was set; Merlin would have the means to secure his freedom.

-o-

“Come.”

The door opened and Gwaine entered Arthur’s chambers.

“You wished to see me, sire?”

Arthur turned from the window to stare at his knight. He knew Gwaine had been closest to Merlin, and was unafraid of breaking rules.

“I did.”

Gwaine’s posture was tense and he was unsmiling. He regarded Arthur warily.

Arthur walked over to the knight and stopped in front of him. He studied Gwaine’s face. Gwaine stared back, defiant.

“Did you know?” Arthur asked, voice soft, but laced with a trace of menace.

Gwaine didn’t even pretend to not understand what he was referring to. “I suspected.”

“And you didn’t see fit to discuss your suspicions with me?”

“I did not.” He raised his chin a small bit higher and didn’t flinch from Arthur’s intense gaze.

Arthur made a small noise and crossed his arms in front of his chest, continuing to stare; his face revealed nothing.

Gwaine became more and more agitated the longer the silence drew on. Finally, he blurted, “You can’t mean to go through with it tomorrow.”

“Can’t I?” Arthur asked, voice scathing. “He’s a sorcerer. Apparently, you suspected, but didn’t see fit to inform your prince. Your king. Perhaps if you had, my father might still be alive.”

“You cannot believe Merlin had anything to do with your father’s death.”

“Were you not in the hall? Did you not witness what happened?”

Gwaine’s expression shifted minutely. If Arthur had not been watching carefully, he might not have seen the tiny moment of uncertainty. But then it was gone almost before it had even appeared.

“Merlin didn’t kill your father. I don’t know what happened in that hall, but I do know Merlin would never have hurt Uther. Things are not always as they appear.”

“He’s a sorcerer. My father has hunted his kind down for decades. Why wouldn’t he hate the King? Why shouldn’t he want to kill him?”

“Because he loves you,” Gwaine said forcefully, voice raised. “He would never do anything to hurt you.”

Arthur turned from Gwaine, sucking in a deep breath, trying to control the rush of shame he felt. How could Gwaine sound so certain, be so quick to defend Merlin, when Arthur was willing to think the worst? 

Irrationally, he was angry at Gwaine, angry at his easy acceptance of Merlin, his staunch defence of the boy. Jealousy reared its head, like a beast clawing at him from the inside. He knew Gwaine and Merlin had always been close. Now he wondered just how close they had been. He whirled back around. “He’s a liar. That much is clear. Or have you just been taken in by his pretty face as well? Is that it? Is that what happened?”

Gwaine’s jaw clenched, as if he were biting back words. Arthur wanted to see him crack, wanted to watch Gwaine suffer too. Wanted someone to hurt as much as he did.

“How did he convince you so easily, hmm? Did he falls on his knees, suck on your cock between his pretty pink lips? You’re awfully quick to rush to his defence.”

Gwaine’s face flushed and his nostrils flared. Arthur felt a pang of satisfaction, knowing he had struck a nerve. He continued with his taunting. “Or did you just want him to? Is that it? Is that what you thought about at night, while Merlin was warming my bed? Did you wish it were you?” 

Arthur circled around Gwaine now, like a predator, moving in for the kill. 

“He’s very good. You’ve seen his mouth. The things it can do…”

Gwaine didn’t move, but Arthur watched the vein in his neck throb, the muscles in face twitch. 

“There’s still tonight, you know. I’ve no use for him any longer, after all. And he won’t be dead until tomorrow. There’s still time enough for you to have a little fun, to give him a try.” His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. “I can even leave you the keys…”

Arthur pulled the key ring from his belt and dangled it in front of Gwaine’s face. “It will be our little secret.”

“You bastard,” Gwaine spat out, eyes flashing as his hands curled into fists. Arthur was sure he had succeeded in pushing Gwaine over the edge. He waited for him to strike, ready to return the blow. Then Gwaine went still as he caught something in Arthur’s expression. He was breathing heavily, staring at Arthur’s face. Calculating.

“The guards…” he said cautiously, unsure if he understood what Arthur was saying, if there was added meaning under the surface. “Won’t they be on watch?”

“I’m sure you can think of something to distract them,” Arthur said. “Some wine, perhaps.”

“Some wine,” Gwaine repeated carefully.

“I’m sure they’d appreciate it. Might convince them to look the other way. Let you have your fun; he’s burning tomorrow anyway. I imagine they’d enjoy the opportunity to relax.”

Arthur tore his gaze from Gwaine’s intense stare and started pacing. “I, on the other hand,” he continued, “have been unable to relax. Not for days. I’ve needed to have Gaius prepare a sleeping potion.”

“A sleeping potion… is that right?”

“Yes. From Gaius.”

“From Gaius,” Gwaine repeated again, his words slow and deliberate.

He watched Arthur pace for a few moments more, then reached out his hand, grabbing Arthur’s arm to stop him. He moved to face him. Arthur’s expression was hard, unyielding.

“Arthur?” Gwaine asked, squeezing his arm gently.

Arthur felt a crack in the façade he wore, weakening his resolve for a fraction of a second. He could tell by the shift in Gwaine’s expression—now containing pity and compassion, sorrow and gratitude—that he saw it too.

“Don’t,” he whispered, pulling his arm from Gwaine’s grip, turning away from him. He took a deep breath. He could not afford to fall apart in this moment. Then he walked to the table, set the keys down, hearing them rattle as his hand trembled.

He cleared his throat. “That will be all. You may leave.”

The room was silent, then he heard Gwaine moving. He was startled when his knight knelt before him, reaching for his hand and pressing his lips to the back of it.

“Good night, my lord.”

Arthur closed his eyes and waited for the sound of Gwaine’s footsteps to cross the room, for the door to open and then close. When he opened his eyes, the keys were gone from the table.

-o-

The klaxon of the alarm rang out well before dawn. Arthur felt as if he had just closed his eyes when he was awakened by the shouts through the castle, the clanging of the bells. He gave himself a moment to let relief wash over him before pushing the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed his face wearily and then he was up, before the pounding on his door had even begun.

His knights and advisors had mostly gathered by the time he was dressed and had made his way to the council chambers. He saw Gwaine watching him as he entered the room, standing silently at the edge of the group while the others talked excitedly. He looked tired, Arthur noted, and carrying strain in his shoulders. Arthur tilted his head in Gwaine’s direction, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. Gwaine returned it with a nod of his own and Arthur could see his tense bearing relax just the smallest amount.

“Gentlemen,” Arthur said, moving to his place at the head of the table, the seat his father had previously occupied. He remained standing while everyone took their places. When they had settled and he had their attention he asked, “What is the news?”

“The sorcerer Merlin has escaped,” one of his father’s men—one of his men now, he corrected himself silently—said.

“I gathered as much. Do we know more?”

“Not much. The cell was found empty and the guards were out cold. He must have had help from someone in the castle.”

Arthur shook his head. “That’s impossible. I have the only key and it never left my sight,” he said, not looking in Gwaine’s direction. “I think we must assume he used sorcery. And likely put a spell on the guards as well. We already know he’s extraordinarily powerful.”

Talking erupted all at once as the men discussed the charges Arthur levied.

“We need to go after him. He’s too dangerous to be allowed free.”

“How do you catch a sorcerer who can knock out the castle guards and move through locked doors?”

“He can’t have gone far, and he’s wounded. That was quite a blow to the head.”

Arthur winced at that statement, knowing he was the cause of Merlin’s injuries.

He let them discuss amongst themselves for a few moments more before speaking out, but it was clear the majority were in agreement that Merlin must be found. A rogue sorcerer who had already attacked once could not be left to roam unchecked.

His voice rang out. “He killed my father.” The men shifted their attention back to Arthur as the room grew quiet. “That cannot go unanswered. I’ll gather my men. We’ll leave by dawn.”

“Is that wise?” asked another of Uther’s men. He swung his head around to see who dared challenged him. “You’re likely his next target.”

“I’ll not have my men riding out to face a danger I would not face myself,” Arthur said, leaning his hands on the table and looking around the room, daring anyone to argue. No one did.

“Gwaine,” Arthur spoke again. His knight looked up, startled to be singled out. “You knew him well.”

Gwaine nodded in agreement, eyeing Arthur cautiously.

“Where do you think he would go? I know he has family in Ealdor. Do you think he would head there?”

With a shake of his head, Gwaine said, “No, I think that’s the last place he’d go. He’d know we’d look for him there first.”

Arthur gave a nod of his head, acknowledging the answer, confident Ealdor was exactly where Merlin was headed.

“Leon?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Check at the stables to see if any mounts have gone missing. And have them ready the horses.”

“Yes, sire,” he said, rising from the table, giving a bow in Arthur’s direction before exiting the council chamber.

“Lancelot?”

“Yes, sire?”

“You’re with me. Gwaine, Percival, Bedivere? You’ll also ride.” They nodded in acknowledgment. Addressing Lancelot again, Arthur said, “Choose three more men and have them meet us at the stables. The rest will remain here.” Lancelot nodded and likewise left the room with a bow.

Arthur turned to the other council members. He addressed a few of his father’s oldest friends and confidants, nodding at them in turn. “Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind staying a few moments to discuss how matters are to be handled while I’m gone I’d be most grateful.” They murmured their assent and the rest of the room slowly emptied as preparations were made for their departure.

Hours later, Arthur and his men were off, heading north toward the Darkling Wood. There had been much discussion about which direction to take, after they confirmed Merlin was on horseback. If he had been working with the other sorcerers—Arthur was not yet ready to fully discount any possibility—his gut told him Cenred was involved. But heading east would take them near Ealdor, exactly where Arthur did not want them to go. Gwaine suggested Merlin would likely avoid that route, expecting them to take it, and instead circle around from the north. They had no better lead to go on, so the decision had been made.

Old jealousy crept in when Arthur watched Lancelot kiss Guinevere goodbye. That hurt had been assuaged by the happiness he’d found with Merlin, but of course that happiness had been shattered and his heart ached in ways he couldn’t express. He was startled from his brooding stare by a movement at his side; someone had come to join him. 

Elena smiled up at him when he turned his head. Her gaze moved to Guinevere and Lancelot, following the path his eyes had taken moments ago.

“So is she the reason, then?” she asked with a tilt of her head.

Arthur gave a rueful smile and shook his head. “No, she’s not the reason. She might have been, not so long ago. But, not any longer.” He sighed. “There was…nevermind. It doesn’t matter any more.”

He felt her hand on his arm. He looked down, staring at her slender fingers, and for a moment he pictured another hand, pale and graceful, resting there. He blinked and gave his head a little shake. Then he looked questioningly into Elena’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry about your father.”

He placed his hand on top of hers and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.”

“You’re a good man, Arthur Pendragon. You’ll be a fine king.”

Arthur felt a lump form in his throat and looked away from her face, staring into the distance as the rising sun turned grey skies to soft shades of pink and orange. The words were familiar; Merlin had said something similar to him once. Would everything remind him of Merlin, he wondered?

He realized he hadn’t responded when she started speaking again. “I wanted to thank you for everything. My father is anxious to travel home, so I expect we’ll be gone by the time you return.” Arthur shifted his attention back to Elena’s face. “I hope our families will always be allies,” she continued. “And I hope you’ll allow me to regard you as friend.”

Lifting her hand, he turned toward her and leaned over, kissing the back of it. “Of course, my lady. I should like that very much. I feel the same.” He released her and she in turn tugged at his upper arm, pulling him down while she reached up on her tip toes to kiss his cheek.

“Be well, Your Highness,” she said with a deep curtsey. “Travel safely.”

“Thank you. And you as well.”

Lost in thought as they rode, Arthur had to wonder if he had made a mistake refusing Elena. She was kind and understanding, smart and spirited, both beautiful and strong. He couldn’t think of anything else he’d need in a queen. Now that he was king, he’d be expected to produce heirs. The luxury of time, which had previously kept him from dwelling on such things, had vanished. And his reasons for wanting that time no longer mattered. There was no burgeoning relationship to nurture and protect, no Merlin to curl up with at night, no hands to hold or lips to kiss.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the pain those thoughts immediately brought, he gave himself only a moment to dwell on his loss before opening his eyes, refocusing on their route. He suddenly wondered what he was doing, going off on a wild goose chase for a sorcerer who wouldn’t be found, heading in the opposite direction of their intended quarry. They’d likely be gone weeks, hours on horseback each day with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. Nothing to distract him from his memories. Already he could feel them ready to break through the moment he let down his guard. Arthur spurred his horse forward, as if he could put distance between himself and the thoughts on which his mind longed to dwell. He had no idea how he’d be able to stand it.

-o-

The long days on horseback, as Arthur predicted, proved to be unbearable. He spent hours replaying every moment with Merlin in his mind, all the way back from the very start when Merlin drank from the poisoned cup in his stead. Now Arthur wondered if he had planned the incident to gain his father’s attention and work his way inside the court. He questioned Merlin’s close friendships with Guinevere, Lancelot, Gwaine. How easy their camaraderie had seemed, how he slipped into their lives as if he had always been a part of them. He questioned his own relationship, how willingly he had submitted to Merlin— both physically and emotionally. He couldn’t help but wonder if he had somehow been ensorcelled, if Merlin had manipulated him to care. More than any other, this thought left him bereft. Even though he ached from the betrayal, still questioned the truth of the events of his father’s death, he desperately wanted what had blossomed between them to have been real, at least on his part, if not on Merlin’s. Arthur held tightly to the memories of how it felt to have something that was wholly his, something private and special, apart from his duty to the crown. Even if Merlin had been using him, he wanted his choice to have been his own.

The nights were the hardest, as he lay alone in his tent, the murmur of voices around the camp lulling him to sleep. He’d dream of sparkling blue eyes staring down into his own, the feel of Merlin’s body pressed against him, limbs tangled together, the warmth of his breath against his neck. Then he’d wake alone, arms empty, cheeks damp. The loss would hit him the hardest those mornings, and he’d feel a tightness in his chest, as if he couldn’t breathe. Thoughts of his father would inevitably creep in and Arthur would roll onto his back and lie there silently, grief like a heavy blanket weighting him down. It would be some time before he’d find the strength to move. The men would steer clear of him on such mornings, reading his dark mood in the clip of his words, the scowl upon his face.

Other nights he was haunted by erotic dreams, his body responding to the memory of Merlin’s hands on his skin, hot breath in his ear, the thrust of his body, even in sleep. He’d wake aching and hard, flushed and wanting, knowing he’d need to find relief before leaving his tent. At first he’d tried to not think of Merlin as he stroked himself to his release, but it proved impossible, no matter how determined he was. Eventually, he’d just given in, replaying his memories in vivid detail, re-living their intimate moments again and again. At times the images in his head were so real, it was as if he could sense Merlin’s presence.

He could picture Merlin’s face—sharp cheekbones, luscious lips, fair skin—but it was the expression it wore that inevitably pushed Arthur to the edge. He could recall it with perfect clarity, devoted, adoring, as if Arthur shone brighter than the rising sun. He’d spill over his fist, muffling his moan, then he’d lie there, eyes closed, holding onto the memory as long as possible before he had to face another empty day.

As the weeks wore on with their search yielding little news, the men began to grow restless. Arthur could hear the murmurs of dissatisfaction, their wondering amongst themselves how long they were going to continue to look for a man who most likely would never be found. Arthur knew the search was in name only, and the days were hard. The nights harder. But as brutal as the long stretches of time were with nothing to do but think and remember, the idea of returning home to Camelot was even worse. In Camelot every inch was suffused with memories; Arthur wasn’t ready to face them. 

Eventually, Lancelot called him out. They had travelled through the Darkling Wood and beyond. Rumour held no assistance. The complete lack of news led them all to conclude they were on the wrong track.

“We should head back to Camelot. Our efforts are futile,” Lancelot said. “We’ve been gone long enough people will be satisfied that we did our best to locate the sorcerer. Merlin,” he corrected. Anticipating Arthur’s objection, he added, “We can still send out search parties—smaller ones, to different areas, but without any concrete evidence to go on, we’re searching blind. He could be anywhere.”

“I’m not ready to give up so easily,” Arthur said.

“It’s not giving up. It’s searching smarter.”

“Mayhap you’d like to rephrase that.”

“That was meant as no insult to you. Surely you know that.”

“Do I?”

Lancelot’s expression shifted, becoming cautious. “You should.”

Arthur turned, putting his back to Lancelot, trying to gather himself. He could feel his emotions ready to spiral out of control, the building frustration, anger and grief reaching a tipping point.

Arthur spun back around. “And just how should I know that, exactly? You’ve given me reason before to doubt your loyalty.”

Lancelot stepped back, almost staggering, as if the words were a physical blow. His face was pained. “Arthur?” he asked, but didn’t deny the charge.

Arthur glared at him, feeling his anger swell. Words he wasn’t sure he meant were bubbling to the surface. He knew he should keep silent, walk away, but some urge inside him kept looking for a way to lash out.

“Arthur,” Lancelot said again, voice entreating, “I thought… I thought what had gone before… with Guinevere, was settled between us.”

“This isn’t about Guinevere. It’s about Merlin.”

Lancelot’s face shifted again into grim determination. “Are you sure about that?”

“Questioning me again? Is that wise?”

“Probably not, but someone needs to speak up, to call a halt to this madness.”

“Oh, madness now, is it?”

“You’re not yourself. It’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot.”

Arthur’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. Lancelot’s eyes followed but he made no move to reach for his own weapon; his arms remained hanging loosely at his sides.

“I’m curious,” Arthur said, slowing circling Lancelot. “Why do you want so much for us to give up the search? Are you hoping he escapes? Do you not want to see him brought to justice?”

“If justice is deserved then I would like to see it met.”

“If?” Arthur was in front of Lancelot now. He leaned in closer to his face to ask the question. “He felled a king with his sorcery.”

“I am not yet convinced that is the truth.”

“So you think Merlin is innocent?”

“I did not say that either.”

“But you think it.”

Lancelot didn’t answer.

“Is this what you believe? Answer.”

“I believe Merlin is innocent, yes.”

“Hmmm.” Arthur made a thoughtful noise and continued his circling. “There’s still his crime of sorcery. Of that there can be no question.”

Once again, Lancelot remained silent.

Arthur was struck with a thought and his stomach turned to lead. “You knew,” he said, moving around quickly to face him.

Lancelot stared back defiantly.

“You did know.” Arthur was seething now. “You knew Merlin was a sorcerer. And yet you said nothing.”

Lancelot didn’t have to answer. His expression said it all.

“How long? How long have you known?”

“I’ve known since…” He paused.

“How long, Lancelot?” Arthur slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard.

“Since… almost since the beginning.”

“So you betray me again?” His voice was steel.

“What? Arthur, no—” Now Lancelot was alarmed. He took a step backward.

Arthur pressed forward, bringing the tip of his sword up.

“You lie to me, keep secrets from me, what would you call it?”

“Please, no, that’s not… you are my king. My allegiance is to you. I would never betray you.”

“And yet, you have. Twice now.”

“No, Arthur…” Lancelot’s distress was evident. Arthur was unmoved, his face a mask. 

“Why shouldn’t I take you back in chains? Or better yet, why don’t we have it out right here? Draw your weapon. We’ll settle this like men.”

“I will not fight you.”

“And if I command you to? As your _king_?” He sneered the last word, putting mockery to Lancelot’s claims of loyalty. “Would you disobey me still?”

Lancelot was stricken. Arthur could see it in his eyes. This would end badly, he knew, but he seemed unable to stop himself from pressing the issue.

“I cannot take up arms against my king. I cannot,” Lancelot whispered. “Arthur, Merlin is no threat to you. Just as I am no threat to you.”

Mentioning Merlin’s name was a mistake; Arthur could see Lancelot realized it immediately as Arthur’s expression morphed into something dangerous.

“So I should surround myself with liars? Dishonest men who replace my judgment with their own?”

Lancelot only stared.

“No, those are the actions of a _fool_ ,” Arthur yelled. “And I will be made a fool of no longer. You are to leave this search party immediately. And then you are to leave Camelot.”

He watched dispassionately at the emotions played out on Lancelot’s face.

“Arthur,” he choked out.

“You may return for Guinevere, but when we get back from our search, you are both to be gone. Do you understand?”

“Arthur, please don’t do this.”

“It is already done,” Arthur said, voice final. Then he turned from the heartbreak on Lancelot’s face, hardening himself against it, ashamed of the grim satisfaction he felt to see someone suffering as he had done. 

He faced the others who had gathered round and were watching silently. “Prepare to ride,” he commanded. “We’re heading to Ealdor.”

Arthur ignored everyone as they made ready for departure. He noted Gwaine speaking softly and urgently to Lancelot, his hand on his shoulder, heads close, Lancelot nodding at his words, jaw tight. Seemingly unruffled, Sir Leon was going about his tasks, efficiently helping the others get on their way. Arthur didn’t turn to watch as Lancelot sat on his horse, giving one long last look back at him; didn’t watch as Lancelot tugged his reins, turning his horse in the opposite direction; didn’t watch as Lancelot rode away from them, eventually disappearing from sight between the trees.

Arthur mounted his horse, rode to the front of his men, and said, “Come. We ride.”

-o-

The first signs of trouble appeared when they were on the road toward Cenred’s kingdom. Bordering to the east, north of Ealdor, it sat beyond the forest of Ascetir. From the north the road took them past the turn off to Mercia. Travellers were common through the area and they stopped for the night at an inn near the junction. The people in the village reacted cautiously when they passed, almost as if in fear. The reaction reminded Arthur of the way people had behaved after the attacks on the druids had occurred. Arthur and his men travelled without any outward sign they were from Camelot; they hoped to discover more information if their origins were unknown.

When they were unable to unearth even the slightest rumour from anyone, Arthur finally confronted the innkeeper, ordering an ale from the tavern on the main floor, taking in his surroundings, keeping his ear open to any gossip.

“We were expecting more of a welcome,” he said addressing the innkeeper after he had sipped on his drink for a few moments. “Why are we feared? We have done nothing.”

“You’re not Cenred’s men?” 

“Cenred’s men? Have they been causing trouble?”

“Who is it that wants to know?” the innkeeper asked, giving Arthur a penetrating look.

Seeing no reason to continue to hide their origins, and more than a few to reveal who they were, Arthur answered, “We’re from Camelot.”

“Camelot? Should you not be home then, preparing?”

“Preparing? We’ve been on the road for some weeks. What exactly should we be preparing for?”

The innkeeper’s face became calculating, as if he were trying to come to a decision. Then he looked around the room to ensure they weren’t being overheard. He leaned in closer to Arthur and said, “Rumour is that while the new King Arthur is away from his kingdom, seeking the sorcerer who killed his father, Cenred is building an army and recruiting magic users to move into Camelot.”

“And how came you by this news?”

“His men were here, recruiting in this very inn, making promises. And threats,” he added.

Arthur pulled a gold coin from the purse at his belt and slid it toward the man. “I thank you for the drink, and the information.”

The innkeeper looked at the coin then picked it up, studying it closely. He looked back at Arthur with an appraising look, cocking his head questioningly. Arthur gave him a slight shake of his head to forestall any more questions then took his leave with a “good evening.”

The news was the same in every village they passed. With proof now of what he had long suspected, Arthur knew he should return home. Indecision tore at him as he travelled across the land. He contemplated the rich earth, the crops in the fields. The forests with their teeming life. He loved Camelot; he always had. Even as he doubted his fitness to rule, he’d always held a deep protectiveness toward the land he loved. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t turn back immediately; he knew his decisions could be putting the kingdom at risk. Maybe he was going mad, as Lancelot had suggested.

The longer Merlin eluded him, the more urgent the need to find him became. What had started as a hunt in name only had at some point turned into a reality. Arthur was becoming obsessed with confronting Merlin, forcing him to answer Arthur’s questions about what had been real, what was a sham. The need to _know_ was an imperative. Part of it, he suspected, was that things felt unfinished between them. A bigger part of it, he knew, was he couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing Merlin again—never seeing that dark hair framing his pale angular face, seeing his lean body and long limbs. Never looking into his bright blue eyes again.

He tried not to examine his desire too closely, his drive to find Merlin at all costs. But he knew the need that was buried deep inside, the memory he rarely allowed himself to think of these days, because the pain of it was too great. He knew what he really couldn’t bear to lose was the look on Merlin’s face, the one so full of love, where he looked at Arthur as if he were the centre of the universe. Somehow that had become more important than Camelot itself.

But that would never happen now, he admitted, his thoughts bitter. He himself had seen to that. Arthur knelt at the side of a creek, downstream from the other men and the horses, wanting a moment to himself. These were the thoughts he tried his hardest to keep at bay, to keep buried deep so he was able to function day to day. These were the thoughts that could bring him to his knees—the devastated look in Merlin’s eyes as Arthur’s sword hilt came toward his face. The blood that seeped from his throat as the blade of Arthur’s sword pierced his skin. How in his rage, Arthur had nearly choked the life from him and then tossed Merlin to the ground like refuse. His tearful eyes as he begged Arthur to believe him.

The sun was bright, the sky a deep blue. The water in the brook sparkled clean and clear, sunlight glinting off the surface as it babbled and danced over twigs and stones. Birds chirped in the trees above. The day was beautiful, but Arthur could appreciate none of it as he doubled over in pain, his stomach clenching from the ache in his gut. He reached into the stream, filling his hands with the cold water and splashed it on his face. Anger raged through him, unable to be contained now that his emotions were surfacing. He splashed his face again, trying to get himself under control. 

Arthur was startled by a touch on his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” It was Gwaine.

Arthur took a deep shuddering breath and splashed his face with water again. And then once again. He fought to regain his composure before rising.

“I’ll be fine.”

Gwaine was silent, staring at Arthur, his expression thoughtful. Arthur stared out over the water, not meeting his eyes.

After a long moment in which neither of them spoke, Gwaine finally asked, “What are we doing, Arthur?”

“We’re searching for Merlin.”

Gwaine let out a heavy sigh. “Are we?”

“Yes. What did you think we were doing?”

“Honestly, I’m not really sure. I thought I knew…” He shook his head before continuing. “Giving you the chance to grieve, I thought, perhaps. Giving Merlin time to get away.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

“He’ll be long gone from Ealdor by now.”

“You don’t know that,” Arthur snapped.

“And what will you do if you find him?” Gwaine’s voice took on an exasperated tone. He pressed on. “Why bother to go to all the trouble of helping him escape if you just plan to capture him again?”

“I don’t—”

“What do you think is going to happen if you find him? Are you going to tell all your men you’re letting him go again? Surely you can see how unworkable this plan is?”

Arthur’s ever-present anger, always under the surface, sprang to life.

“Again, such vehemence. He has quite the champion in you, doesn’t he? Why is it so important to you that I not find Merlin?”

“I just told you—”

Arthur’s expression turned cruel. “What happened that night in the dungeon? Did you comfort him? Was he grateful for your help?”

Gwaine’s nostrils flared and Arthur could see the play of muscles across his face as he clenched his teeth.

“Did you finally get those pretty lips around your cock? Is that why you don’t want me to find him? So you can have him to yourself?”

“Would you listen to yourself? Can you even hear how you sound?”

“That’s it, isn’t it? Do you know where he’s hiding? Tell me.”

Gwaine shook his head. “I’ll not have any part in this madness.”

“Madness, is it?”

“Yes, madness,” Gwaine practically yelled. “We’ve been gone for months now. You’ve heard what Cenred’s planning. And yet, you’re still chasing after shadows. Did you ever consider, Arthur, that maybe Merlin doesn’t want to be found?”

The words were like a slap in the face. Arthur reeled backward.

“I’ll not stay for any more of this. You can continue on this mad path, driving everyone who cares about you away, but I’m done. I’m leaving and going home to Camelot.”

Fury reared to life inside Arthur, hearing Gwaine voice aloud the thoughts he’d had himself. He knew Gwaine was right, yet he wanted to punish him anyway.

“I should strip you of your knighthood,” he snarled.

Gwaine paused, as if about to speak, then let out a heavy sigh before turning and walking away.

Arthur stared after him silently. He didn’t follow.

-o-

Arthur was aware of how irrational his actions were. He knew, yet he seemed unable to stop himself from continuing on—yes, he thought ruefully, Gwaine had been right to call it such—this mad path. After Gwaine had left, his drive to find Merlin seemed even stronger; it was becoming all-consuming. When they heard of a rumour of a powerful sorcerer being spotted in the forest of Ascetir, Arthur immediately changed routes, postponing their arrival in Ealdor. Gwaine’s words once again reverberated in his head, this time about chasing shadows. Arthur cared little; if shadows were all he had left, then shadows he would pursue.

After several long days of bad weather and one lost trail after another, the men were growing irritable. Tempers were short and the strain of travelling was taking its toll on everyone. Arthur pulled Leon aside, needing his steady head.

“What is your counsel, Leon? Should we return home?” Arthur asked. “In my heart I know we must, yet for the first time since we set out I feel we’re close. It’s as if I can sense him nearby.”

“Whatever choice you make, I’ll stand behind you.”

“What about the men? Do they, like Lancelot and Gwaine, think we’re on a madman’s quest?”

Leon looked troubled. After a pause he said, “If they do, they would not say so aloud.”

“Lancelot and Gwaine had not trouble stating their opinion.”

“If you’ll allow me…” Leon started.

“Yes?”

“There is much value in surrounding yourself by men unafraid to speak their minds.”

“So you think I was wrong to send Lancelot away?”

Leon shook his head, his curls bouncing around his face. “I make no judgment there. That’s between you and Lancelot. I know there are complications between you I cannot possibly know the details of.”

Arthur nodded, accepting his answer. “And what of Gwaine?” 

“Gwaine burns hot, but he’s loyal to you,” Leon said. “He’ll cool down. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him back here any day.”

Arthur shook his head. “I doubt that will be the case.” He paused, then continued, staring into the distance, not meeting Leon’s eyes. “I… said some things he might find difficult to forgive.”

Leon turned toward Arthur. “If you give him an opening, he’ll take it.” He searched Arthur’s face then placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Your men love you. They don’t like to see you suffering.” Arthur’s eyes darted away, but Leon continued to speak. “They don’t understand what we’re doing, but they follow you willingly. As do I.”

Arthur could feel his throat tightening and he pulled away, turning his back to Leon. After taking a moment to collect himself he said, “I’m not sure any more that I understand what I’m doing.”

“Then perhaps it’s time we returned home.”

Arthur looked out into the forest. His thoughts were full of Merlin, full of regret. Feeling that they were finally so close was like a tickle at the back of his neck. Could they come so far and then just give up? Could he let it all go? Could he resign himself to never seeing Merlin again? He thought of Cenred and his growing army, the people in Camelot under his care. He knew he’d neglected them these past months, put his kingdom at risk. And all for selfish reasons. In his heart he knew it was time. At the very thought a weight seemed to settle on his shoulders. He steeled himself to say goodbye to what might have been. In front of him now was duty—a possible upcoming war and preparations to be made. He closed his eyes, the pain of loss hitting him once again, like a punch to the gut, a piercing blade through his side.

He nodded his head slowly. “Yes, it’s time we returned home.”

-o-

Arthur was awoken from a sound sleep by someone calling his name. The voice was faint, and he could swear it sounded like—

“Merlin,” he whispered.

His heart raced. He pushed his blanket aside and dressed quickly, hands shaking. Exiting his tent, he looked around the camp. Everyone was asleep; even the guards were dozing, exhausted from the day’s ride. Merlin was nowhere to be seen. Then he heard the voice again to the east. Momentarily, he considered waking Leon, but his conversation with Gwaine was still fresh in his mind. If the men knew he had found Merlin, he’d have to determine some way to explain another escape. Or he’d be forced to take him prisoner. No, this confrontation needed to occur in private. Arthur quietly left the camp, heading in the direction he thought the voice originated. “Merlin?” he called softy.

“Arthur?” he heard again. “I’m over here.” This time it sounded like it was coming from the north. Arthur adjusted his bearings, heading deeper into the forest. The moon above shone brightly and lit his way. As he walked, wisps of fog crept over the ground, stealing across the terrain like the rising tide. He called for Merlin again, trying to pinpoint the direction he must be in.

“This way,” Merlin called. “Over here.”

The fog was thicker now, obscuring Arthur’s path. He saw a flash of crimson in the distance—Merlin’s kerchief, he thought—and he began to jog toward it. But when he reached the spot, there was nothing there.

“Where are you?” Merlin called again. “Arthur, where did you go?” His voice was fainter this time, and Arthur started to panic.

He ran this time, yelling louder. “I’m here. Stay where you are and give another shout. I’ll come find you.”

“I’m over here,” Merlin called, even fainter than before.

Arthur batted at the fog, as if he could wave it away like smoke from a campfire, but it grew thicker, slowing his progress. He could barely see his hand held out in front of his face. Stumbling through the forest, he called louder, “Merlin?” He stopped, listening for an answer. One didn’t come.

Spinning in all directions, trying to calm his loud breathing, the pounding of his heart, he strained to the slightest sound. “Merlin!” he yelled. “Merlin!”

Again he heard no response. As he tried to quell the rising despair—he couldn’t lose him before he even found him again—the mist began to emit an odour, thick and sweet. Arthur almost felt as if he were in a dream; his brain was as foggy as the air. He stumbled forward, calling for Merlin yet again, hoping he was still within range. As his lungs filled with the sickly sweet air, his head began to spin and spots danced before his eyes. He stumbled again, falling to his knees, catching himself with his hand. Coughing, he tried to rid his lungs of the noxious gas, but his head became even more muddled. Arthur choked out one more plea for Merlin before his arm gave out and he fell heavily to the ground on his side. As he lay there dizzy, panting for breath, he saw a figure emerge from the mist. Arthur blinked slowly trying to focus—pale skin, long limbed, night-dark hair. 

“Morgana,” Arthur gasped as he lost consciousness.

End of Part 2


	3. What Infinite Heart's Ease - PART 3

* * *

  


Arthur woke bound and gagged. His head throbbed, thoughts still sluggish from whatever he had breathed in the forest. It took him a moment to recall what had happened, how he had come to be here. Where exactly ‘here’ was remained as of yet unknown; he only knew Morgana was involved.

Morgana. He had almost given up hope of ever seeing her again. She was changed; that much was clear. Her beauty was still very much in evidence—the strong jaw was the same, the pale skin and dark hair. Her face, however, was sharper, more angled. Her pale eyes which had always discomfited him were even more unsettling, holding no trace of warmth. She had appeared out of the mist like some wraith from a dream, silent and mysterious. Even though he was obviously a prisoner, Arthur felt a tentative excitement that he’d see her again, speak to her, be able to ask where she had been all these years. Was she safe? Was she happy?

From the expression he could recall seeing on her face in the brief moment before he lost consciousness, Arthur felt he already knew the answer.

Tugging at his restraints, Arthur tested to see how secure they were. He instinctively tried to reach for his sword, but his hands were tied; his weapons, to no surprise, had been removed. His muscles ached as he twisted trying to free himself and he could feel bruises as he moved. He suspected he had been carried on horseback, and treated none too gently. He wondered how far they had come. Squinting, still lightheaded and a little dizzy, Arthur surveyed his confinement. He was in a small room with a dirt floor. The back wall was stone, and curved around like a cave. The opening had been built out to enlarge the room, and metal bars had been placed across the small window in the door.

Arthur looked around the room for any object he could scrape the ropes against, but other than the stone wall behind him, there was nothing; the room was empty. He started to scoot across the floor, eye searching out any jagged edges, but before he could get close, he heard the jangling of keys outside the door.

The door opened slowly and Morgana stepped into the room. She reached a hand out toward the wall and the torches burst into flame, illuminating the space. Arthur knew she had magic; he had surmised her secret long ago, yet it was still disconcerting to see her eyes glow with power as she used it so casually right before him. Her hand returned to her side and Arthur watched carefully as she stood there, giving him a dispassionate stare. He tried to speak, but his voice was muffled by his gag. Arthur jerked his head, trying to indicate he’d like it removed, but Morgana didn’t react; she continued to study him silently. Arthur stopped his movements and returned her gaze, searching her face for… anything at all, anything he could recognize of the girl he once knew.

As Arthur watched, her hand reached out again, this time toward him. Her eyes glowed brightly and then her arm crackled with energy as electricity shot from her fingers toward him. He braced himself, but nothing could prepare him for the shock that jolted through him as every nerve in his body was wracked with pain. Helpless, his body convulsed and he screamed against his gag in agony. He wasn’t sure how long the attack lasted; it seemed endless, but in reality it was probably only seconds. When it stopped, the relief was so abrupt Arthur went limp, sagging against the ground. He shook with after-tremours and he wasn’t sure he could get his body to obey him, even if he were free to try. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he breathed heavily through his nose as he tried to recover from the assault. When he was able, he turned his head to look at Morgana. She barely gave him time to meet her eyes before her hand was again extended, sparks shooting from her fingers.

Arthur was even more incapacitated after the second blast. It seemed to last longer than the first and the physical pain, combined with the realization that Morgana hated him to such an extent, was devastating. It took him longer to recover this time too. He could feel his muscles twitching, each movement sending new coils of pain over his skin, through his muscles, deep into the bone.

A third blast hit him before he could even open his eyes. Arthur had no energy left to scream. He’d never felt such pain, never felt so helpless. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. This time it seemed to last forever and he prayed he’d lose consciousness or else he’d end up going mad. Finally, the assault abruptly ceased. Every nerve in his body was raw, flayed wide open. Arthur didn’t think he could even open his eyes without excruciating pain. He lay on the ground motionless, wondering if the ordeal was over or if there was more to come. Before he had barely formed the thought, he was hit with yet another blast. Mercifully, his body rebelled, mind shutting down as he succumbed to darkness.

When he awoke, the torches were burning low and the room was filled with a gloomy light. His gag had been removed, as had his bindings. Instead, he was restrained by both wrists and ankles to shackles, secured by chains bolted into the stone wall. Arthur struggled to a sitting position, wincing at the shoots of agonizing pain that went through him at each movement, and gave an experimental tug. He tugged harder, testing the strength of the chains. His efforts only succeeded in causing more pain to his ravaged body. A voice spoke into the silence, starling him.

“You won’t be successful,” Morgana said. “They’re secured by magic.”

Arthur stopped the attempts to get free and turned to look at Morgana. She was standing near the door, face unreadable. 

All the questions he had carried over the years faded; there was only one he needed the answer to now: “Why are you doing this?” Arthur hardly recognized his voice; it was barely a croak, his throat raw from the screaming and bone dry from the cloth that had been used as a gag. He was thirsty, he noticed absently. 

Morgana only stared back, eyes intense, then she turned and exited the room, locking the door behind her.

Once she had gone, Arthur tested his restraints again, almost rubbing his wrists raw in an effort to free himself. After assuring himself of the futility of his situation, he sagged back to the ground, the energy required to stay upright too much for his weakened body. He shut his eyes, cheek pressed to the cool dirt floor, and almost immediately drifted off to sleep.

When he woke next, he was unable to tell how much time has passed. Without any natural light entering the room, he didn’t know whether it was night or day. He moved experimentally and was happy to find that the pain was a little less than the last time he had awoken. Arthur pushed himself to a sitting position and took stock of his surroundings. His thirst was even greater than before. A metal pan had been placed in the corner, but other than that, the room remained empty. He wondered how long he’d be kept here, what Morgana’s reasoning was, what the purpose was to his capture. He assumed she didn’t want him dead, at least not yet. Otherwise, what would have stopped her from killing him when he had lain bound and gagged and at her mercy?

His knights would be looking for him, at least. Morgana’s magical assault had been excruciating, but he was strong; he’d be able to withstand whatever he needed until he was found. Arthur gave some thought to her motives, but without knowing anything about her life since she had left following her attack on Uther, he really had nothing to go on. Was it simply hatred that she had carried with her all these years? He supposed that could be the case. The thought disheartened him. He wished he could tell her how his sympathies had changed regarding magic, how he always wished he’d been able to help her, but he supposed he would hardly be believed; the entire kingdom knew he was on a manhunt to bring a sorcerer to justice. Maybe that was the reason, then—the magic users of the land didn’t want a second Uther on the throne.

Would she keep him here indefinitely, then? Was she involved with Cenred, helping him to invade Camelot and expand his own kingdom? It seemed possible; Arthur just didn’t know. If that was the case, though, it seemed unlikely he’d be kept alive. At least not for long.

The method of his capture now crossed his mind. Learning the voice he’d heard and followed into the night had been nothing more than a ruse was a grievous disappointment. The pain was of a different ilk than the physical trial he had just endured, but Arthur felt it no less intensely. He still wanted answers. Still wanted to be convinced Merlin’s words in the dungeon had been the truth. Still wanted Merlin to explain how he could have lied to Arthur all those years. Most of all, he still wanted Merlin. That was the crux of it. He wanted Merlin as much as he ever had, even with the lies, the betrayal, the secrets he’d kept. He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Who knew how long he’d be trapped here. Isolated and alone, he now had even more time to think. For once he indulged himself, focusing his memories on Merlin’s smile, the way his eyes lit up when Arthur returned it with one of his own. For a moment, it was enough to ease the pain.

As the hours passed—days, maybe? He didn’t know—Arthur’s thirst surpassed the residual pain from Morgana’s assault. His stomach was knotted with hunger as well, but that was bearable. The thirst was becoming an overriding need. 

The door to his prison opened again, and Arthur looked up, hoping someone was bringing water. A man entered, his face masked with a hood. A feeling of dread crept over Arthur and he braced himself for more pain. The man held out his hand toward Arthur, much like Morgana had done, but instead of electricity, Arthur was immobilized. He struggled to move, but it was if he was bound by invisible restraints. The man moved closer and Arthur could only watch as his wrist was grasped in the man’s gloved hand and the fingers of his sword hand were bent and broken one by one. His throat was paralysed; he couldn’t even scream. He felt his vision greying, then mercifully lost consciousness from the pain.

Arthur groaned as he came to. His unbearable thirst had receded to a secondary concern as the pain from his mangled hand eclipsed everything. He struggled to a sitting position again, cradling it in his lap. He could barely look at his fingers without feeling sick—the knuckles were swollen, the fingers mutilated and useless. He was beginning to think that even if he escaped he may as well be dead. Who would follow a king who couldn’t wield a sword? He could use his other hand, of course, though not as adeptly, but his weakness would be apparent to anyone he faced; he was damaged, crippled. He vaguely wondered if he should try to set them, straighten them to see if he might still have some use when they healed, but at the first touch the pain was so severe he almost passed out. He leaned back against the wall again, closed his eyes and tried not to think about his parched throat, the throbbing ache in his fingers. 

Instead he thought about Merlin, his long elegant fingers as he buckled Arthur’s armour. The way he’d smooth his hands over Arthur’s shoulders, down his back, straightening the fabric of his shirt, making him presentable for court. The way they’d massage the aches from his muscles, knead into his tight shoulders, loosening Arthur’s tension and bringing him relief. He didn’t want to think about those same fingers extending forward toward Uther, wielding tremendous power, instruments of death. He pushed that image aside and focused on the way they’d tremble, bury themselves in Arthur’s hair when they were pressed close together, joined intimately in their passion. If memories of Merlin were all he had left, he was glad to have these to ease his misery.

His torturer returned far too soon. This time Arthur watched helplessly as the man took a sharp blade and ran it down the side of his cheek. He could feel the blood dripping from the gash, sliding down his neck. Momentarily, he was reminded of Merlin and the way he had pressed his own blade against Merlin’s throat when he lay helpless in the great hall. The hooded man didn’t stop with the one cut, however. He slashed Arthur’s tunic open and made a series of shallow slices across his chest. Arthur could feel the blood seeping slowly from each cut; he knew he’d gradually become weaker as his life force drained from his body. He wondered if these wounds would be enough to kill him.

When he next opened his eyes, Morgana had returned. She was standing as she had that first time, silently by the door, watching him impassively. 

Arthur was too weak to move. From his position prone on the floor, he asked, voice barely usable, throat parched and dry, “Why are you doing this?”

An ugly expression crossed her face. “How does it feel, Arthur, to be so helpless? To have no one come to your rescue, no matter how hard you hope?”

Arthur didn’t answer; he could barely keep his eyes open, trained on her face.

“I was just a girl, Arthur. You did _nothing_.” She reached out her hand and sent out a shock to his ravaged body that left him trembling long after she had whirled away from him and left the room, locking the door behind her.

The next time the man in the hooded mask came into the room he didn’t even bother with the magical restraints; Arthur was too weak from lack of water, food and now blood to move. The man’s booted foot nudged him, toeing him inquiringly. When Arthur’s only response was a stifled moan, the foot withdrew. Arthur thought he had been given a reprieve this time, but then the man pulled back his foot and delivered a kick to his face. Blood filled his mouth; Arthur swallowed it down, desperate for any liquid relief at all. His stomach immediately roiled and he gagged, the movement causing excruciating pain through his body, knives to his chest. 

Arthur floated between dreams and wakefulness. He was hot. Too hot. He knew his wounds were likely fevered and, without treatment, would only get worse. If no one came soon, this prison would be his tomb. He thought of all the ideas he’d had, his plans for Camelot. He’d squandered the beginning of his reign, chasing ghosts, too focused on his personal injuries to do what was best for his kingdom. His father would surely be disappointed were he alive. Regrets weighted his heart; hope was fading. This was not how he wanted to die, not how he wanted to be remembered.

Morgana was there when he next awoke. “Why hasn’t he come?” she asked.

“Who?” Arthur croaked, the word barely recognizable. Morgana left without another word; she returned a short while later with a cup of water. Even the slightest movement was excruciating, but Arthur struggle to sit, thirst making him desperate. Morgana levitated the cup toward him and he grabbed it greedily with his non-injured hand. Bringing it to his lips he drank it down. There was barely enough to wet his throat, not enough to slake his thirst, just enough to tease. But he held the cup tilted upward until every last drop was gone.

“Where is he?” Morgana asked.

“Who?”

“Your sorcerer.”

“I have no sorcerer.”

“Merlin. Where is Merlin? Why hasn’t he come for you?”

Arthur shook his head. “Merlin will not be coming for me.”

“You lie. I’ve seen it.”

Arthur let out a bark of bitter laughter, delirium allowing him to appreciate the dark humour in the situation. He was being tortured to lure a sorcerer who would likely be happy to be doing the torturing himself.

“You’ve got it all wrong. Merlin isn’t coming. He hates me. Maybe even more than you do.”

“I doubt that, dear brother,” Morgana said before sweeping once more from the room.

Arthur stared at the closed door long after she had departed, stunned by her revelation.

When Arthur heard the door creaking open, he didn’t even bother to open his eyes. He was not expecting to survive much longer. He’d been without water, save for the small amount earlier, for what must be days now. His fever was worsening. And now that Morgana knew Merlin wasn’t coming; what need did they have to keep him alive? Whatever they planned to do to him, he only hoped it was quick.

The invisible bonds clutched at him and he was pulled to his feet, then slammed against the wall. His head sagged as he barely stayed conscious through the pain. The chains attached to his shackles tightened until he was spread, arms and legs akimbo. Arthur pried open his eyes and what he saw caused his heart to sink; his hooded adversary was holding a mace in his gloved fist, swinging it in slow circles.

Arthur watched through his delirium as if it were happening to someone else—the man walking closer, the mace swinging faster until the spiked metal ball was slammed into his leg. He heard the sharp crack of bone, an ear-piercing scream and then there was blackness.

Voices woke him. Arthur swam slowly toward consciousness, struggling for breath as his useless leg refused to hold him. He was hanging from his shackles, sagging by his arms and slowly suffocating. From the other room, he could hear Morgana arguing with… Merlin. He felt a surge of hope. Arthur tried to call out, but didn’t have the strength. Instead he could only listen to the altercation taking place beyond his cell door.

“…knew you’d come for him. There’s not much left of him, I’m afraid. That is, if you’re not already too late.”

“Where is he? You’ll tell me now.”

“Or you’ll what?”

Arthur heard the blast of a spell and waited to see if either was still alive.

“Impressive,” Morgana said, sounding slightly out of breath. “But it won’t be enough, I’m afraid. Not to get past me.”

“What quarrel have you with me? Why did you lure me here?” Merlin asked.

“What quarrel? You can ask that after you killed my Alvarr? I will have my vengeance.” Another spell blast crackled through the air.

“The sorcerer who attacked Uther.”

“The world is better off without a man like he.”

“And I suppose you’ll take the throne? Is that your plan, Morgana?”

“Why not? I’ve just as much claim by blood as Arthur.”

Another round of volleys transpired while Arthur struggled to listen, desperate to hold on for just a little longer.

“But no,” Morgana continued. “My son Mordred has an even larger claim. Cenred will conquer Camelot and when my son comes of age, he’ll take the throne. Magic will be restored to its rightful place.”

“Cenred? I may have killed Alvarr, but it could easily have been Cenred. Beware his treachery, Morgana. You’re a fool to join forces with one who kills our kind by deceit in order to win us over.”

“Camelot has always been the scourge of our people. Cenred will allow us to be free.”

“Yet it is Cenred who murders women and children, eradicating the druid camps to sow unrest.”

“You lie,” Morgana snarled, as another blast resounded.

“Enough,” Merlin yelled, his voice dangerous. “Arthur loved you, once upon a time. I have no idea of his feelings now, but I will spare your life for his sake. Do know this, Morgana, if you touch him again, you’ll wish I had ended you.”

A final blast ricocheted from beyond and then there was silence.

Moments later the door to his prison was blown off its hinges. Merlin burst through the door, followed by two of Morgana’s men. Merlin turned, held out his hand and the men went flying, their heads smashing against the stone. They slid lifeless to the ground, blood from their crushed skulls smearing a stripe down the wall.

Merlin rushed to his side and with another wave of his hand Arthur’s shackles snapped open. He slumped immediately, but Merlin caught him, lowering him to the ground, his voice frantic, saying, “Arthur, please, please. Don’t let me be too late. Arthur, please.” Arthur’s lungs were burning and he gasped, greedy for air. When he could catch his breath, he forced out a whisper: “Water.”

Through hazy eyes Arthur saw Merlin cup his hands and murmur strange and foreign words. His eyes glowed gold and then Arthur watched with amazement as droplets of water, like condensation on glass, started forming in Merlin’s hands, as if he were pulling the moisture straight from the air. When a small amount had pooled in his palms, Merlin tipped his hands to Arthur’s cracked lips and poured the water into his mouth. He repeated his actions again and again until Arthur gave a small nod and whispered, “Thank you.”

Exhausted and delirious, Arthur closed his eyes while Merlin’s hands roamed gently over his body, diagnostically cataloguing his injuries. He heard more of the strange words coming from Merlin’s mouth and then he felt as if he were floating, the pain suddenly gone. He sighed deeply and felt himself drifting off.

“I’m going to take you somewhere. Someplace safe where you can heal,” Merlin said. “I know you don’t believe me, Arthur, but…you can trust me. I’m going to take care of you.”

With his last ounce of strength, Arthur opened his eyes. Merlin was looking down at him, face anxious and sad and worried. A tear was sliding down his cheek. The expression was wrong on Merlin’s face. Out of place. He shouldn’t look like that, Arthur thought as a puzzled frown formed on his forehead. The Merlin he remembered had laughing blue eyes and a grin on his lips. He struggled to lift his hand, but it was too heavy in his depleted state. He wanted to wipe the tear from off his face, put the smile back in his eyes. 

“Merlin,” he whispered before darkness overtook him.

-o-

Merlin wanted to get Arthur as far away as possible before Morgana regained consciousness, but Arthur was in such a weakened state he was almost afraid to move him. Chanting a spell under his breath, he did what he could to ease Arthur’s pain, helping him sink into oblivion. In the final seconds before Arthur fell unconscious, he whispered, “Merlin.” The tears that had begun when he first caught sight of Arthur, bound and broken, covered in blood—he hadn’t even been sure he was still alive at first—fell more freely when he heard his own name on Arthur’s lips. He had never expected to hear such a thing again.

Casting another spell to lighten Arthur’s weight, Merlin gathered him carefully in his arms and carried him out of Morgana’s prison. When they emerged from the darkened chambers, Merlin squinted at the afternoon sun, shining brightly in the clear blue sky. The contrast of the beautiful day and the battered wreck of a man he was holding felt perverse. He had always thought of Arthur as bright as the sun, radiating a glow that attracted everyone to him. Merlin swore he’d do everything in his power to return him to health; Arthur would shine again.

Merlin whistled and his horse emerged from the trees. He put his foot in the stirrup and used its leverage to hoist Arthur over its back. He worried, knowing his actions would likely reopen the crisscrossing wounds across his chest, but it couldn’t be helped; they had to leave. Pulling himself up behind Arthur on the horse, he then grabbed him under his armpits to move Arthur so that his back was to Merlin’s chest. He reached to tug Arthur’s leg over the horse’s back, apologizing, even though he knew Arthur couldn’t hear, when Arthur cried out in pain, even with the help of Merlin’s spells. The leg, Merlin thought grimly, looked bad; he wasn’t sure he could save it.

He couldn’t think about that right now; his immediate concern was putting some distance between Arthur and this terrible place. Before they started off, Merlin shifted to reach into the saddle bag, digging out a phial. He uncorked it and tipped it up to Arthur’s mouth, pouring it between his lips, waiting for him to swallow, hoping to help keep his fever down. He felt dangerously hot, but anything more would have to wait until they reached their destination. Merlin adjusted Arthur again so that his head was cradled against his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist. He took a brief moment, unable to resist, to bury his face in Arthur’s hair, breathing deeply. Over the past few weeks he had, far too many times to count, thought he’d do anything to hold Arthur in his arms again; he never imagined it would be like this. Never like this.

They rode all day, Merlin taking advantage of Arthur being unconscious to cover the ground. Finally, as dusk was falling, they arrived at their destination, a small cottage deep in the forest of Ascetir. Merlin shifted Arthur forward onto his horse’s neck then dismounted. He held his hand out to the door, eyes glowing, as he murmured a spell. The door swung open and Merlin slid Arthur from the horse into his arms again, carrying him into the cottage, laying him gently on a raised pallet.

Checking Arthur over briefly, Merlin took a bucket near the doorway and went out to the side yard, filling it with water from a stone well. Before going back inside he cast a series of protection spells, including ones to dissuade anyone from travelling near the cottage, and others to create an illusion if they did; anyone coming near would not see the structure itself, only the forest and endless trees. Satisfied with his efforts, he returned to Arthur’s side.

Merlin began to tend to Arthur by cutting away his torn and bloody clothing. He tried to retain a clinical stance when faced with the numerous wounds he uncovered, several of them an angry red, but couldn’t help the stinging in his eyes, the tightness in his throat. Using a damp cloth, Merlin gently cleaned every cut, one by one, then covered them generously with a medicinal salve. 

He took Arthur’s hand next, swollen and mangled, closing his eyes to concentrate as he assessed the damage. Merlin reached out with his magic, letting it penetrate through the skin, skimming over sinew, muscle, tendon, bone. Though severe, the injuries were not irreparable; he could fix this, he was certain, Merlin felt with a moment of pure relief. Arthur would wield a sword once again.

The leg was the most troublesome; the bone had been literally shattered. Piecing it back together would be a task that would strain even his magical abilities. Despite Merlin’s years with Gaius, healing had never been his strength. But for Arthur, he would try. He would try almost anything. Arthur would need to be awake, however. Merlin wasn’t going to attempt such complicated healing without Arthur’s permission. If he failed, the alternative was amputation. He’d never take such an action without Arthur’s awareness. The trust that had once been between the two of them was shattered, much like the bone; it was likely just as beyond repair. Merlin would give Arthur no more reason to doubt him again.

Merlin lifted the spell that kept Arthur unconscious and Arthur breathed out a sigh, not awakening, but body shifting into a deep sleep. Merlin eyes roved over Arthur, making sure he had done what he could for now. He knelt next to the bed and stared at Arthur, his king. His love. Overcome with emotion, he picked up Arthur’s uninjured hand with both of his, pressing it to his lips, holding it against his cheek.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

While Arthur slept, Merlin used the time to prepare a meal, starting a fire and roasting a hare over a spit. He wrapped the meat in green leaves and placed it near the coals to keep it warm then placed the bones in a deep pot, filling it with water and seasoning it with herbs to make a broth. Arthur would be hungry, Merlin expected, but he wasn’t sure how his stomach would fare after being denied for several days. In addition, he was still feverish and in significant pain.

As if on cue, Arthur groaned from his bed. Merlin was at his side in an instant, hovering anxiously, waiting to see if Arthur would awaken. He did, blinking confusedly, but Merlin was relieved that he seemed to be lucid, at least for now. “Merlin?” he questioned. Arthur looked around the room as if trying to place his surroundings, then asked, “Where are we?”

“You’re safe. We’re in Ascetir. A cottage. No one can find you.”

Comprehension dawned on Arthur’s face; Merlin could see the memories flood back. He picked up his ravaged hand, checking to see if it was as he remembered and brought it into his line of sight. Wincing from the pain of movement, a shadow fell over his expression as the reality of the loss of his sword hand reasserted itself. He lay the hand back down by his side, as gently as he was able, and closed his eyes, resting his good arm across his face.

Merlin pulled a stool close and sat down, leaning in with his elbow resting on his knees. He paused, wondering how Arthur would take his next statement. “I believe I can fix it.”

Arthur removed his arm and his eyes flew open to stare at Merlin. “My hand?” he asked.

“Yes.” Merlin sat up straight and rubbed his hands nervously over his thighs. “I think I can repair it so that you’re able to wield a sword again.”

“With…” Arthur paused, clearing his throat. He seemed uncomfortable speaking the word aloud. Or maybe his discomfort stemmed from discussing it so directly with Merlin after having had Merlin’s abilities hidden from him for years. “With magic?”

“Yes.” He stopped his hand movements and held them still, waiting, anxious for Arthur’s reaction. “If you’ll allow me to try.”

There was a long pause while Arthur thought over his words. Then he asked, “My leg?”

Merlin hesitated. “I don’t know if I can save your leg,” he admitted.

Arthur frowned, looking grim.

Merlin hurried to clarify. “I’d like to try, if you’ll let me. But the damage is severe and healing was always more of Gaius’ skill than my own.”

“You always were pretty much rubbish at everything, weren’t you?” Arthur joked, cracking a wry smile. “Why should magic be any different?”

Merlin barked out a laugh, unbelievably moved that Arthur was here, next to him, joking about the very thing he thought had irreparably driven a wedge between them forever. 

“Pretty much, yeah,” Merlin agreed, throat tightening. He blinked rapidly and turned away, not wanting to look at Arthur to find that the kernel of hope that flickered in his belly was unwarranted. Just for a moment he wanted to believe they could move past this, find forgiveness. Needing something to take his thoughts in a less dangerous direction, Merlin stood and went to the fire, using a rag to grasp the handles of the pot. He carried it to the table and ladled some of the broth into a bowl. Carrying it over to Arthur, he set it on the stool, saying, “Here, let me help you try and sit up.”

Propping up pillows behind Arthur’s back, Merlin helped pull Arthur to a sitting position. By the time he was situated, Arthur’s face had turned white from pain and sweat had broken out on his brow and upper lip. He leaned his head down, chin against his chest and took deep breaths. After a moment, he looked up at Merlin and gave him a small nod. Merlin picked the bowl up and sat down beside the bed. Arthur tried to take the bowl from him, but Merlin batted his hand away, noticing how it trembled with weakness.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but let Merlin tip the bowl up to his mouth. “If you can keep this down,” Merlin said, “I’ve got some meat and bread you can have in a little while.”

Arthur gave another small nod of acknowledgment and continued to drink the broth, taking small sips, giving his stomach time to adjust. Merlin continued to talk, deciding now was the time to clarify the issue with Arthur’s mangled leg.

“The bones in your leg have been shattered. The hand—those are all simple breaks—the tendons, bones, I can put them back in place. The leg, however…” Merlin paused, swallowing. “I’m not sure if I can repair all the damage; it’s extensive. If I can’t, the leg will have to come off.” He couldn’t look at Arthur to see his reaction to this news.

“If you didn’t try, the leg would have to come off anyway, would it not?” Arthur asked after a moment. Merlin braved a look. Arthur stared back steadily, already knowing the answer. 

“Yes, it would have to come off.”

Arthur nodded at the confirmation. “Then the choice seems obvious.”

“You’ll allow me to perform magic on you?” Merlin asked, clarifying, making certain there was no misunderstanding about what he planned to do.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll allow me to put you under? Make you unconscious for it? You’ll have to go deep; I can’t risk you moving while I’m trying to piece your bones back together.”

“I’ll allow it.”

“And if I find it’s beyond my skills?” He couldn’t continue with the words. He wanted to ask if Arthur trusted him to make the decision about his leg. But with Arthur having little choice, his answer would be meaningless.

“Yes, you may take the leg. If the damage is too severe, you have my permission to amputate if necessary.”

Merlin let out a breath. He wasn’t sure what he would have done had Arthur said no. Fatigued from the emotional rescue and tense journey to the cottage, Merlin felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He knew it would be folly to attempt complicated healing while he was this tired.

“I need to rest before making the attempt. I’d like for you to rest as well.” Merlin stood up and retrieved another phial of medicine. “First, take this for the fever. I’ll do another spell for the pain if you’ll allow.”

Arthur nodded and took the phial and drank the bitter liquid, grimacing at the taste. Merlin helped him lie back on the bed then held his hands over Arthur, murmuring the spell. Arthur’s eyes were trained on his and Merlin wondered what was going through Arthur’s mind as he watched his eyes change colour and turn gold. Did he still hate him for what he was? Still hate him for lying? The crease in Arthur’s forehead smoothed out as the spell took effect and the pain released; his eyes drifted closed. Merlin slumped, dropping his hands to his sides, wondering if he had the energy to do anything other than curl up on the floor by the bed. He took a deep breath, bracing himself to complete a few more tasks before succumbing to sleep. He checked the fire, set a spell on the food he had prepared earlier so it would keep, then gratefully moved to the mat on the floor nearby. He felt a moment of melancholy, thinking how many times they had lain like this before—Arthur in the bed, Merlin curled up by the fire. He drifted off to sleep with sorrow in his heart, remembering a morning which had begun with Arthur shaking him awake and had ended in kisses. He’d give almost anything to have that again.

The sound of moaning woke Merlin. He cursed under his breath, eyes blinking blearily, trying to transition to alertness. He’d slept longer than he had intended; the spell protecting Arthur from pain must have worn off. Merlin rose from his mat and hurried to Arthur’s side, brow furrowing in concern when he noted the fever seemed to have returned. Quickly preparing a new draught of medicine, Merlin returned to the bedside and gently shook Arthur awake. His heart thudded and his stomach twisted when Arthur opened his eyes, glassy with delirium, and smiled, the uninjured hand reaching out for his own. Merlin knew Arthur’s mind was clouded by fever, but that didn’t stop him from memorizing the expression on Arthur’s face—one he thought he’d never again see directed at him. It didn’t stop him from grasping Arthur’s hand in his own, feeling the rough calluses against his skin. He savoured the connection even though he knew it wouldn’t exist were it not for the fever. He rubbed his thumb gently across the knuckles of Arthur’s hand, then squeezed it gently, wanting nothing more than to bring it to his mouth and press his lips against it. Instead, he moved it back to the bed, giving it another squeeze before reluctantly letting it go.

“Are you hungry?” Merlin asked.

“Thirsty,” Arthur answered.

Merlin nodded. “I’d like you to take some more medicine as well,” he said, moving to get a cup of water. 

Before helping Arthur sit up again, Merlin cast a spell to ease Arthur’s pain. Then he propped up the pillows once more and helped Arthur drink. Arthur’s eyes were unfocused and his cheeks flushed. Merlin worried about attempting to repair his damaged bones while he was still sick with fever, but he feared waiting longer even more. He didn’t want to risk having the bones begin to knit or, even worse, have a chip of bone enter Arthur’s bloodstream. It had been risky enough jostling him on horseback all the way to the cottage, even with the spells he had cast.

Giving him at least enough time to have the medicine take effect, Merlin convinced Arthur to drink a little more broth. He fussed with the pillows, knowing he was procrastinating, nervous about the task ahead of him. This would be by far the most difficult healing he had ever attempted; Merlin wished Gaius were here. 

Finally, he took a deep breath and asked, “Are you ready? I’m going to put you under now.”

Arthur looked at him, eyes momentarily focusing on his face, and said in a voice more steady than Merlin would have expected, “I’m ready.”

Merlin nodded and took another deep breath, steeling himself for what he must do. He raised his hands and held them palm down over Arthur’s chest. As he was about to speak, Arthur reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Merlin,” he said, voice grave.

“Yes?”

“There’s something I need to say.”

Merlin’s heart started pounding, wondering what was going to come out of Arthur’s mouth next. “What is it?”

“If you need to amputate…”

“Yes?”

Arthur paused, long enough to cause Merlin to begin to wonder if he’d changed his mind. Then Arthur said, in that same serious tone, “It’s the right leg.”

Merlin snorted with laughter, slightly hysterical with relief. 

Arthur’s expression cracked and a smile spread across his face. He reached up a hand and touched the corner of Merlin’s mouth with his finger. 

“That’s better,” he said.

Merlin reached up and took Arthur’s hand, pulling it away from his face and placing it back down by his side. 

“Very funny, sire. I see you’re still as big a prat as ever.” An ache formed in his chest; the teasing was bittersweet. For a moment he could almost believe they were back in Camelot, before everything had gone so wrong. He swallowed down the lump in his throat. He could not get caught up in the emotion of the moment; he needed to save all his concentration for healing.

Clearing his throat, he asked again, “If you’re ready?”

Arthur nodded and Merlin returned his hands to their previous position. He felt the power surge through him and knew his eyes were glowing gold as the words left his lips. As Arthur’s eyelids fluttered shut and his breathing deepened, Merlin heard Arthur murmur, “You called me sire.” And then Arthur drifted even deeper, heart slowing, mind quieting past the point of dreams.

Merlin stared at Arthur, almost deathlike in his stillness. He shivered, wanting to shake that image from his mind. “You’ll always be my king,” he said softly under his breath before setting to work.

Hours later Merlin opened his eyes and sunk onto the stool by Arthur’s bedside. He was exhausted, ready to collapse, but he felt triumphant. There were limits to what repairs he was able to effect, but with the proper rest and care, and ample time to let Arthur’s body continue to mend, Merlin felt certain he would both walk and wield a sword again. The hand, as expected, was a fairly straightforward task, even if every single finger had been mangled. The breaks were clean, the tendons easily reattached. It would take time to fully heal, but Merlin had few reservations about the success of his efforts.

The leg, on the other hand, was a complex, intricate repair, requiring every last bit of skill and concentration he could muster. The work had been like piecing together a puzzle, with tiny fragments and splintered slivers to fit into place. While he was working, Merlin had no idea how much time had passed. Several instances he had been on the verge of giving up, thinking he’d never get it put back together sufficiently for Arthur to use the limb again, but he persevered. The leg would still need weeks to knit back together, but after determinedly ploughing on in spite of his discouragement, all the tiny shards were in place and held in stasis with the help of a spell—a magical splint, in effect. Merlin was cautiously hopeful.

A wave of exhaustion swept over him and he gripped the edge of the bed, lightheaded. Blinking to try and keep himself awake, he got up and staggered to the table, ripping off a chunk of bread and chewing it ravenously, then washing it down with a long draught of water. Feeling a bit more stable, he went back to Arthur’s side and lifted the spell which had kept Arthur unconscious. Merlin watched carefully as Arthur’s breathing and heart rate returned to normal; he remained asleep throughout. Taking a clean cloth, Merlin dipped it into a cup of water, then squeezed it between Arthur’s lips, watching his throat swallow reflexively. Once he was assured that Arthur was doing well and sleeping peacefully, Merlin curled up in front of the fire and immediately sank into a dreamless sleep.

For the second time, Merlin was awakened by the sound of Arthur’s moans. Worried that his leg or hand was troubling him, Merlin scrambled to the bedside and was immediately filled with concern. Arthur was drenched in sweat, skin flushed. Merlin pressed his hand to Arthur’s forehead; he was raging with fever. The bedding was also soaked. Merlin cursed under his breath and hurriedly prepared another draught of medicine. After tilting Arthur’s head up and getting him to drink, he also tipped more water down Arthur’s throat. Then he took a damp cool cloth and wiped it over his face, his neck, his chest, doing what he could to lower Arthur’s temperature. He wasn’t sure if magic could help, not that he even knew what sort of spell he could perform under the circumstances; Arthur’s body was fighting the fever and Merlin didn’t know if interfering would do more harm than good; he didn’t want to risk inadvertently making things worse. Once again he wished Gaius was here. Keeping Arthur comfortable was one thing he knew he could do, at least. Eyes glowing, Merlin drew the moisture from the bedding, making it clean and fresh, hoping to help Arthur rest more easily.

All through the long night he sat at Arthur’s side, bathing him with cool water, gripping his hand and trying not to let worry take his mind to terrifying places. Nevertheless, he wondered more than once, as Arthur fought the fire raging through his body, if he was going to lose him like this, after everything. 

Still exhausted from the demanding spellwork earlier and tending Arthur through the night, Merlin found himself nodding off again and again, head jerking up at each small noise. At some point, Arthur’s condition shifted and he began to shiver uncontrollably. Merlin stoked the fire and used his magic to assist keeping the temperature in the cottage elevated, but nothing seemed to help. Spasms wracked Arthur’s body and Merlin worried he’d do damage to his healing leg. At last, remembering some of Gaius’ teachings about hypothermia, Merlin slipped out of his trousers and shirt and slid into the bed alongside Arthur, taking care not to jostle his leg. Wrapping his arms around Arthur, Merlin held him tightly and pressed as much of their skin together as possible. He wasn’t sure his actions would help, but he knew they couldn’t hurt.

His primary goal was to get Arthur’s shivering under control so he could rest and heal properly. He hadn’t thought through the emotions he’d be bombarded with once he held Arthur in his arms. Merlin squeezed even tighter and pressed his face against his neck, letting his mouth rest on Arthur’s skin in an almost kiss, breathing in his scent, sour from fever, but still so familiar, so precious. So beloved.

Arthur’s shivering gradually eased, much to Merlin’s relief. At the same time, he was reluctant to let Arthur go. Lying with Arthur clasped tightly against his chest, ankle hooked around Arthur’s good leg, was more than he ever thought he’d know again. He wanted to hold on to the feeling, capture it for just a moment longer to carry with him into the lonely days ahead. He took another deep breath, one arm draped over Arthur’s waist, holding him close, the other snaking up to sink itself in his hair. Just one more minute, he told himself, memorizing the feel of him—the heat and the texture of his skin, his scent, the softness of his hair. Just one more minute, he thought as his eyes drifted closed and he breathed Arthur in.

-o-

Arthur woke disoriented, aching all over, but with a sense of peace that had been missing for a very long time. Almost immediately, he realized the source of his contentment—the warm body pressed to his side, arm draped over his stomach. Merlin, dead to the world. He didn’t even move as Arthur shifted next to him; he must be exhausted, Arthur thought. Curious, Arthur raised his hand toward his face and was amazed to see the results of Merlin’s efforts. It was still swollen at the knuckles, cuts scabbed over, but all the broken bones looked as if they had been repaired. Feeling a surge of hopefulness, he tried to discover if his leg had fared equally as well. When he tried to move it, however, the leg felt as if it were bound to the bed. Magic, Arthur assumed. Nonetheless, it was without a doubt still attached to his body.

A myriad of emotions swelled up in his chest. Sick with fever and half out of his mind from pain, Arthur hadn’t been able to give much thought to the loss of his sword hand and the use of his leg, beyond a sense of despair. But now the future unfurled before him again. That Merlin had given him this gift, even after all that Arthur had done, filled him with gratitude. He didn’t understand why Merlin had acted as he had, but hope took root deep inside him. Turning his head to the side, Arthur buried his face in the thatch of dark hair nestled at his throat and breathed deeply, kissing the top of Merlin’s head. “Thank you,” he whispered, even though he knew Merlin couldn’t hear him. Then he tightened his arm around the familiar presence at his side, pulled him just a little bit closer, wanting to hold on to this moment as long as he could. His eyes grew heavy, but he fought to stay awake, not wanting to waste a single second of having Merlin in his arms again. Exhaustion won out and he drifted back to sleep, the last thought on his mind before he sunk into oblivion: Merlin.

When Arthur next woke, Merlin was gone from his side. He wasn’t surprised, but he felt a pang of disappointment anyway. He looked around the cottage, taking in the warm fire, the rumpled bedding on the floor near the hearth, the smell of bread. Merlin wasn’t in sight. Wanting the reassurance of the healing Merlin had performed, Arthur held his hand up to his face once again, noting it was as he remembered from his fevered state. He turned it this way and that, bending his fingers, marvelling at the skill that must have gone into mending his injuries. Merlin came through the door carrying buckets of water just as Arthur was closing his fingers into a fist.

“Don’t,” Merlin cautioned. 

Arthur stilled his movements immediately.

Merlin set the buckets down and hurried to his side. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. It should be fine to move. But I don’t want you picking up anything or using it for anything strenuous for at least a fortnight.”

“All right,” Arthur said, lowering the hand to his side.

“I’m confident you’ll regain full use. I’ve never done this sort of healing before, so I wasn’t sure how far I could push it. I thought it wiser for the bones to finish knitting naturally on their own.”

Arthur nodded in understanding. “And the same for the leg? I should stay off it for a while?”

Merlin grimaced. “I’m afraid the news is not as good for the leg.”

“Will I walk again?” Arthur asked, spirits falling, almost resigned to hear the worst. He knew how severe the damage had been; indeed, he’d been surprised to find the leg still attached when he had awakened previously.

“Yes,” Merlin hastened to assure him. “Gods, Arthur. I didn’t mean that kind of news. It was… very damaged, but I think in time, it will be fine. It’s just a matter of how much time. At least a month, probably. Maybe longer.”

Arthur nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

“You say that now,” Merlin said, smiling. “But I know you. After a few days, you’ll be going crazy from inactivity.”

Arthur gave a little huffy laugh and looked at Merlin, smiling in return. His stomach twisted a little at the familiarity of the moment, how similar it was to all the many times they had teased each other in the past. Their eyes locked and the air became charged. Arthur felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know how to describe the feelings he was experiencing—longing, for what they had lost, discomfort, a jumble of too many emotions to name. Merlin looked away first, turning his back on Arthur and walking over to pick up the buckets of water he had set down in the middle of the room.

“Are you hungry?” he asked without turning back around.

Grateful for the opportunity to focus on something other than the moment they had just shared, Arthur considered the question. “I’m starving.”

“I thought you might be.” Merlin busied himself at the table and returned to Arthur a few moments later, carrying a plate of food. He set it down on the stool by the bed. “Here, let me help you sit up.” 

His manner was professional as he assisted Arthur to an upright position, the expression on his face guarded and distant. Arthur was surprised by how weak he felt. He supposed he shouldn’t be, but for someone who had always been physically strong and active, having to struggle to complete even the smallest of tasks was humbling. Once he was settled, Merlin placed the plate of food on Arthur’s lap and sat down beside him. When Arthur’s hand trembled as he raised the piece of bread to his mouth, Merlin took the food from Arthur’s hand and tore off a bite, feeding it to him like a child. Arthur wanted to protest, but Merlin’s was so matter-of-fact about it, he swallowed his pride and ate the offering gratefully.

After the sharp edge was taken off his hunger, Arthur could no longer hold back. “Why are you doing this?” he blurted out.

“Doing what?”

“Helping me. Healing me. Why did you rescue me?”

Merlin’s expression shuttered closed. He sat back, spine ramrod straight, and didn’t answer right away. “I don’t think we should talk about this now,” he said, leaning over to gather the now empty plate, then standing and walking away, busying himself at the table.

“Why not?” Arthur demanded, ever the one to address things head-on.

Merlin turned to face him, but stayed where he was, leaning back against the table. “You’re still feverish and your body is weak. You need to rest and heal.”

“I’m well enough to carry on a conversation, Merlin.”

“It’s not the time.”

“Why not? I feel up to it.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Merlin bit out then stood to turn away from Arthur again, his fingers gripping the edge of the table.

Arthur stared at Merlin’s back, noting the tense line of his shoulders, his rigid form. Another rush of emotions overwhelmed him, this time overlaid with guilt and regret and sorrow. Somehow even at the mercy of Morgana’s sorcerer, Arthur had never felt more helpless than this very moment.

“All right,” he said, overtaken by a sudden wave of exhaustion. “All right,” he said again, softer this time. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back to lean it against the wall. Lost in thought, he didn’t hear Merlin approaching.

“Here, drink this,” Merlin’s voice said from close by.

Arthur opened his eyes to see Merlin holding another draught of medicine out to him. He took it without a word and brought the phial to his lips, drinking it down in one swallow.

“Thank you,” he said handing the empty phial back and holding Merlin’s eyes with his own. Then Arthur slid back down into the bed, starting to drift into sleep almost immediately. He hoped Merlin knew everything he meant by those words.

Although not incredibly prescient, Merlin’s words about Arthur’s ability to withstand prolonged inactivity proved all too accurate. Once he had fully recovered from the fever and had stopped sleeping most of the day away, Arthur became restless and irritable. He also became increasingly uncomfortable with Merlin waiting on him hand and foot. It was true Merlin had tended to even the most intimate of tasks when they were back in Camelot, but things were different between them now. Having Merlin not only feeding him, but bathing him and helping him relieve himself bordered on humiliating.

Arthur had already tried to get out of bed once to take care of this necessity on his own, but Merlin had rounded on him so furiously, accusing him of trying to cripple himself after all the trouble Merlin had gone to rescuing him and healing him, that Arthur was quite abashed. Merlin always attended him in such a perfunctory matter-of-fact manner that Arthur’s discomfort was diminished, but he still bristled at how helpless he felt. And he almost wished Merlin’s professional veneer would crack; he found himself missing their old easy companionship—the teasing between them, the jocular insults.

They still hadn’t returned to the conversation Arthur had tried to initiate earlier regarding Merlin’s reasons for helping him. Numerous times Arthur had wanted to broach the topic, but he half feared the answer. As long as they didn’t address it directly, Arthur could still hold onto the idea that Merlin was helping him because somehow, in spite of all Arthur had said and done, he still cared. The other reasons that inevitably crossed his mind—Merlin’s betrayal still cut deep—weren’t anything he could protect himself against anyway, not while confined to a bed. Eventually, he knew they’d need to have it all out, but for now, he tried to rein in his impatience and concentrate on getting well.

Such a task was easier said than done.

“I’m not an invalid,” Arthur snapped as Merlin attempted to bathe him with a wet cloth.

Merlin stopped his motions and raised his eyebrow, giving Arthur a pointed look.

Arthur huffed and rolled his eyes. “I mean, I’m not completely helpless. My one arm is perfectly fine. I think I can manage to wash myself. And feed myself. Anyway, shouldn’t I be starting to use my other hand by now?”

“It’s only been days,” Merlin snapped back. “I told you at least a fortnight.”

“It seems longer.” Arthur’s face set into a scowl.

Now Merlin was the one who rolled his eyes. “You always were the most terrible patient out of anyone in Camelot. I’m tempted to make some of Gaius’ old sleeping potion and force you to rest.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Merlin crossed his arms across his chest and they glared at each other.

Arthur broke eye contact first. “Fine,” he huffed, giving in. “But when it’s time for a meal, I promise I can handle it myself.”

Merlin gave a small nod of acquiescence and went back to his task.

Later, when Arthur’s hand trembled so much while trying to eat that the broth was spilling out of the sides of the bowl, Merlin took it from him without a word and held the bowl to his lips, wiping his chest clean with a cloth. After Arthur finished his meal—the broth and some bread which Merlin also fed to him—he lay down with his arm over his eyes. 

“I hate feeling so useless,” he said.

He heard the sound of Merlin coming near, the rustle of his clothing as he sat on the stool beside the bed.

“I know. But it’s only for a short while. It’s important that you let your body heal.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Merlin asked, a smile in his voice. “Because it seems as if you keep forgetting.”

“Good thing I have you to remind me.”

“Good thing.”

Arthur removed his arm from his eyes and looked at Merlin who was smiling softly at him.

He felt as if his breath was being stolen from his chest. He reached a hand toward Merlin’s face, heart full. “Merlin, I—”

Merlin pushed back abruptly, out of Arthur’s reach, and stood, turning his back on Arthur whose hand dropped helplessly to his side.

“I need to gather some plants before the sun goes down. And…” Merlin trailed off as he bustled around the cottage, gathering a basket before letting himself out the door without another word.

Arthur’s eyes followed him; the feeling of helplessness returned and settled like a heavy stone in his stomach. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about everything they used to be. 

Ever since the day Merlin had recoiled so abruptly from Arthur’s outstretched hand, Arthur had been careful to maintain his distance—at least as much as was possible while confined to a bed with Merlin tending to him. Whereas before they occasionally seemed to be slipping back into old familiarity, now they were as strangers—overly polite—treading cautiously when the other was near. Arthur took to watching Merlin as he moved about the cottage, sometimes feigning sleep, studying Merlin when he wasn’t aware he was being observed. Deep in thought, Arthur would compare the man whose care he was now under to the one who had once served him in Camelot. Merlin moved confidently, with a self-assurance no one would ever mistake for a servant. But then again, looking back, Arthur wasn’t sure Merlin had ever acted as a servant ought.

He was still as beautiful as ever, Arthur thought ruefully. Arthur found it difficult to not regard Merlin as he once had when he was so near, bending over him, the long line of his neck so close, the memory of how Arthur’s mouth would move over his throat, tasting it, sucking marks into his skin, as clear as if it were yesterday. Merlin’s shirt would gape as he’d lean forward, his collarbones visible, peeking out from the neckline. Only his eyes were different. Still that brilliant deep blue, but now also a glowing gold, transforming Merlin’s entire face into a stranger’s. He didn’t know this Merlin, the one who wielded incredible power as if it were child’s play; Arthur found it difficult to reconcile this sorcerer with the boy he once knew.

So Arthur brooded, the majority of his days spent lost in thought. Without conversation beyond the necessity, the days dragged endlessly. Arthur had far too much time to think, too much time to turn over all his mistakes in his head. Merlin’s magic, the secret that tore them apart, was often on Arthur’s mind. Arthur had been raised to fear it, to think it evil. Yet, his exposure was limited; he had rarely seen it in use. Arthur watched as Merlin tried to light a fire one evening, the spark from the flint refusing to catch. Merlin had struck the steel again and again and again, pursing his lips to blow on the carefully gathered tinder, attempting to coax it to life. All to no avail. Finally, with a look of annoyance, he had waved his hand and a flame burst into life, the stacked wood catching fire immediately. Arthur shivered at the raw power exhibited so casually, at Merlin’s ability to command the elements themselves.

Unable to stop himself, Arthur asked, “Exactly how powerful are you?”

Merlin looked up and his cheeks pinked as he realized Arthur had been watching. He stood and rubbed his palms on his thighs, a nervous gesture Arthur recognized. This Merlin, at least, was one he knew.

“I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea.”

“Some.”

“Just now… the fire… you just waved your hand. Why didn’t you do that the first time? Why even bother with the flint?

Merlin paused and regarded Arthur, perhaps wondering if Arthur was truly interested in the answer, if judgments were already in place before he even spoke. Whatever was going through his mind, Arthur was pleased when Merlin chose to answer.

“All magic has a cost, even simple spells like that one. If a task can be done without magic, then most often that’s the wiser course to take.”

Arthur latched onto one of the words. “Spells? I didn’t hear you speak.”

Merlin’s blush deepened. Arthur was intrigued by his reaction and waited for him to say more.

“Yes, well, for simple magic, I don’t usually need to speak the words out loud. It’s more of a natural reaction for me.”

“Interesting. And are others the same?”

The tips of Merlin’s ears now turned pink and he fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. “None that I know of,” he said.

Arthur pondered his response, wondering if Merlin’s discomfiture was because they were talking about magic itself, when previously, any such talk put one at risk for execution, or if it was because Merlin’s own magic seemed to be different from others of his kind.

“Then your magic is different somehow? More powerful?” Arthur asked.

“So they say.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

Merlin froze, fear plain on his face.

Arthur cursed inwardly and was filled with disappointment. The rift between them was still wide. He was quick to surmise, however, the origin of Merlin’s fear.

“Gaius’ safety is assured. You may speak freely.”

Merlin still hesitated.

“How much more powerful?” Arthur asked, trying to prod Merlin toward a response. “I’ve already seen you pull moisture from the air and command fire at your fingertips, not to mention move the bones beneath my skin.” He gave a small laugh trying to think of an outlandish task that would serve to lighten Merlin’s unease. “What else? Can you also cause the plants to spring to life from the earth and pull lightning from the sky?”

Merlin only looked more uncomfortable and Arthur’s laughter died on his lips.

“You can do those things?” His voice was tinged with awe.

Instead of answering, Merlin said, “I’ve been told I’m the most powerful sorcerer alive, that a great destiny awaits me.” He cast his eyes downward, no longer looking at Arthur. “I think they must have been wrong.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Arthur stared at Merlin’s bowed head. The urge to reach out and run his fingers through that familiar night-dark hair was strong. Instead he said, “Show me.”

Merlin’s head lifted. “What?”

“Show me,” Arthur repeated.

“Show you?”

“Yes. Show me what you can do. Your magic. I want to see.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Anything. Whatever you want.”

A few seconds passed while Merlin considered his request, then he held up his hand, palm up, and whispered a few words, his eyes glowing gold. Arthur watched his face transform, tried to recognize the familiar, tamp down the uneasiness he felt as Merlin was momentarily replaced by a stranger, quell the involuntary shiver he felt in reaction to the magic being performed before his very eyes.

A soft blue light appeared above Merlin’s palm. The light started to swirl, dancing in circles, faster and faster until it coalesced into a ball. It hovered, shimmering softly, until Merlin whispered again and it rose from his palm and travelled around the room, lighting the shadowed corners, darting here and there, until it came back toward them, stopping above Arthur’s bed.

“I recognize that,” Arthur said. “I’ve seen it before.” The memory of being lost in a cave and being guided out by a similar ball of glowing blue light was clear in Arthur’s mind. The incident had happened long ago, shortly after they had first met. Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What else?”

-o-

Arthur lay with his face turned toward the wall. He was even more conflicted now that Merlin had demonstrated his powers. After the ball of glowing blue light Merlin had shown him many other aspects of his magic—the protection spells on Arthur’s armour, transformation spells, even tricks to make Arthur laugh. Objects danced in the air, animated by Merlin’s outstretched fingers, like puppets to entertain a child. The afternoon culminated in an amazing display of thunder and lightning as rain pounded down on the roof of the cottage. Merlin stood in the middle of the room, legs wide, arms lifted toward the air, fingers spread, head tilted back, eyes glowing fire. The storm raged outside and Arthur shivered at the raw power Merlin commanded.

He was beautiful like this too, Arthur admitted, as he felt a stirring in his groin, even as a frisson of fear shot through him. What kind of man could harness the very elements themselves? For a fleeting moment, he understood his father’s crusade against sorcery. But as he stared, watching Merlin call down lightning from the sky, the stranger he morphed into—this formidable sorcerer inhabiting Merlin’s slender form—looked all at once both foreign and familiar. Arthur recognized those long elegant fingers, remembered a different power they held, the way they could take him apart, leave him breathless and trembling. He recognized the long column of his throat, the knob of his Adam’s apple, the way it felt when Arthur ran his mouth over it, the slight scrape of Merlin’s beard against his tongue when he hadn’t shaved. Arthur recognized the bulge in his trousers, the way the power seemed to stir something in Merlin too. He resisted the urge to reach down between his own legs and rub the erection beginning to grow. Instead he stared, mesmerized, and tried to understand how this magnificent being could be the same Merlin who had been his servant, his companion, and eventually his lover for all those years. 

The beat of rain on the roof began to lessen and the room brightened as the sky began to clear and the clouds dissipated. Merlin lowered his arms and for a moment looked as if his entire body was outlined with electricity, the subtle glow disappearing first from the top of his head, and travelling down his torso, his legs, his feet, until it faded completely away. The golden fire in his eyes dimmed as well, the familiar blue returning. Merlin’s face, however, still shone, as if illuminated from within—lit with a smile, his whole being alive and vibrant. 

With a small laugh he said, “Sorry, I got a little carried away.”

“Impressive. You said all magic carried a cost. What sort of cost does summoning a rain storm bring?”

Merlin shrugged. “I’ll probably pay for it tomorrow. I suppose I couldn’t resist showing off a little.”

“Pay for it how?” Arthur asked, setting aside the admission that Merlin was showing off for him.

“I’ll likely be dead tired. Needing to replenish my energy.” He tilted his head. “Similar, I suppose, to one of your intensive training sessions, when you’ve been working hard with your sword and you’re exhausted and sore later.”

“Like wielding a weapon, then?”

The smile disappeared from Merlin’s face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Merlin, I—”

Merlin cut him off. “Now you’ve seen it. I’ve shown you everything.” His voice was heavy, as if the exhaustion from his exertions was already setting it. “Now you know who I am.” His shoulders seem to droop and he turned his back on Arthur so his face wasn’t visible. Arthur frowned, wanting to say something, but not sure what the right words were. Once again the chasm between them seemed too vast to bridge. 

In the days that passed following Merlin’s demonstration, Arthur became more and more withdrawn. His interactions with Merlin disintegrated even further. Their earliest days together had held at least moments of light hearted banter. Yet those moments had ceased and polite professionalism had taken their place. Now even that was gone; Merlin was curt, when he did speak at all. He still treated Arthur’s injuries with the utmost care, but it was clear he would rather be anywhere than by Arthur’s side.

Arthur knew he had only himself to blame. He understood his reaction to Merlin’s magic was not what it should have been, not what Merlin had been hoping for. He could tell by the way his face—lit with joy—immediately darkened when Arthur compared his magic to a sword. But was it not? A sword, he mused, was not inherently evil. A weapon was a neutral instrument, one that could be used to protect as easily as harm. Was magic not the same? 

His father would have had him believe otherwise, and perhaps Arthur’s upbringing was too firmly rooted for him to articulate a more nuanced understanding. He’d never been good with words. He didn’t know how to convey to Merlin he’d understood what he’d been trying to show him. Arthur had seen his own father struck down by magic, had seen Merlin call down lightning from the sky. Merlin, Arthur knew, had the power to kill; he had witnessed its use when Morgana’s guards fell lifeless to the ground. Yet Arthur recognized the ball of light which had brought him to safety; he listened as Merlin demonstrated the protection spells he’d placed on his armour for years. Perhaps his understanding had simply come too late.

His thoughts drifted toward Morgana. He had avoiding thinking of her in the early days of his recovery, in too much physical pain to try and cope with the reality of her actions. But now she was constantly on his mind—how he’d failed her, how he should have seen sooner the secret she’d concealed. How terrified she must have been living under Uther’s roof. His understanding of her fear and his failure, however, didn’t assuage the deep hurt he still harboured from her torture of him, how he’d been nothing but bait to attract the sorcerer who’d felled her lover, how she’d been willing to let him die. He had loved her like a sister. He laughed ruefully to himself, reminded of the other revelation he had yet to examine. How many secrets had he not known? 

And now she was in league with Cenred to conquer Camelot. Arthur wondered if they had begun the attack. Where were his men? Were they still out looking for him or had they gone home, given him up for dead? Gwaine knew, at least, what Cenred planned. Even though they had parted with harsh words, tempers high, Arthur hoped he had returned to Camelot and was helping prepare for the inevitable assault. All Arthur’s previous anger turned inward; he castigated himself yet again for all the time he had wasted—chasing shadows, as Gwaine had called it. And to what end? Merlin was within a stone’s throw from him, yet he felt farther away than ever. That familiar feeling of helplessness overtook Arthur. What could he do, confined to a bed, his leg not yet ready to bear his weight? Would Camelot fall while he lay impotent?

Helpless… the word triggered a memory of the conversation he had with Morgana. “ _How does it feel_?” she had asked. Morgana had wanted him to feel helpless, the way she had all those many years ago. He tried to imagine what she must have gone through, concealing her secret while watching others—young girls like herself—burn on the pyre. Uther had obviously been aware of her parentage; surely, he would have spared his own child were Morgana’s magic discovered? No, Arthur realized, he couldn’t be certain of the answer to that question.

He felt another pang of sympathy, thinking of Morgana living with their father but never being acknowledged. He wondered when she had found out. Arthur had always felt a strange kinship with her, both having lost a mother. He had envied the way their father had doted on her, not begrudging her the attention, but only wishing some of the same for himself. Now he wondered if Uther was trying to make up for his own sins.

Another uncomfortable memory slipped into his mind—this one regarding rumours surrounding the death of Morgana’s father. Even Arthur had heard the whispers that Uther had intentionally sent him on a military campaign that was certain to end in failure, knowingly sending Gorlois to his death. Arthur had always dismissed the rumours in the past, knowing the deep friendship the men had shared, but so many other beliefs had been shattered. Was there also truth to this story?

“ _You remind me so much of your mother_ ,” Uther had often said to Morgana, caressing her cheek with his hand. As yet another memory rose to the surface, a chill swept through Arthur.

“Merlin,” he called out, breaking the silence that had hung heavy in the cottage between them. “What did Morgana say about her son? About Mordred?”

“What?” Merlin asked, stopping the work he was doing with some herbs at the table and walking over to Arthur’s bedside.

“She said something about his claim to the throne.”

“When was this?”

“Before… before you found me. You were talking to her in the other room. About her plans for Camelot, to restore magic to its rightful place. She said something about Mordred.”

“That when he came of age, he’d take the throne?”

“No, not that part,” Arthur said. The memory he’d been trying to grasp suddenly came into focus. “She said he had an even larger claim than either of us.”

In an instant, everything crystallized and Arthur _knew_. He felt sick. “Mordred is Uther’s son.”

“What?” Merlin looked shocked.

Arthur’s head was spinning with his realization. Other moments between his father and Morgana raced through his mind, taking on new meaning as Arthur viewed them from this new vantage point instead of through the eyes of a child. “No wonder she hated him. Hated me. She said, ‘I was just a girl. You did _nothing_ ’.” Arthur covered his face with his hands, fighting back nausea. “What kind of man was my father?” he whispered.

“You were a boy. You couldn’t have known,” Merlin said.

Arthur pulled his hands away to look at Merlin. From the expression on Merlin’s face, Arthur could see Merlin had already accepted the truth of his conclusion, now seeming so obvious in hindsight. “Couldn’t I?” he asked.

“Arthur—”

But Arthur shook his head, not wanting absolution from his guilt. He turned his back to Merlin, facing the wall. Arthur could feel Merlin’s eyes on him, knew he was holding back words he wanted to speak, but he remained silent. After a long moment, Arthur heard a heavy sigh then Merlin moving away from the bed, back to his work at the table. Arthur shut his eyes, heart heavy; sleep would be a long time coming this eve.

The chasm between them widened further in the coming weeks. Arthur sunk deeply into a black mood, spending most of his day trying to lose himself in sleep, seeking an escape from the thoughts that plagued him when awake. He grappled with this new image of his father, the man whose approval he had long strived to receive. Arthur had always considered Uther to be a good king, even as he disagreed with him on matters such as the persecution of magic users. Yet he had never taken a stand against the practice. He had made excuses in his mind due to the manner of his mother’s death; Uther had always claimed magic was the cause and had been devastated by her death.

How then could a man so supposedly in love become enamoured with another, enough to orchestrate the death of a man who was not only her spouse, but his own friend? What kind of man bedded his own daughter, would have burnt her at the stake were her own powers revealed? By now, Arthur had come to accept Morgana would have been shown no leniency. He understood her desperation, the attack against their father, could only imagine her fear when she discovered she was with child, knowing the fate of her unborn babe were he to have magic too.

 _I was just a girl. You did_ nothing _._

 __The guilt weighed heavily on Arthur. How had he been so blind to everything around him? His father, Morgana, Guinevere and Lancelot… Merlin. Old doubts about his fitness to rule resurfaced and intensified. Maybe he should stay missing, let the world think he had perished.

“Camelot is better off without me,” he muttered.

“What?”

Arthur started, not realizing Merlin had returned to the cottage.

“Nothing.”

“No, not nothing.” Merlin moved to the side of the bed and sat on the stool, leaning in, elbows on his knees, hands folded. “You’re wrong,” he said.

Arthur turned his head away and stared at the wall, the position he’d most often assumed in recent days.

Merlin placed his hand on Arthur’s arm. “You’re wrong, Arthur,” he said again.

Arthur turned his head back and stared at the hand resting on his forearm, the long elegant fingers that were so familiar. It was the first time in weeks Merlin had touched him voluntarily for anything other than necessity. Instantly, Arthur felt calmer, reassured, while at the same time, inexplicably bereft. Merlin had always had this effect on him, had become the one Arthur would turn to when the weight of his father’s disappointment was difficult to bear. Merlin had always had faith in him, shored him up. Even now, when Merlin by all rights should hate him, he was still able to make Arthur feel like he was worthy, that he was capable of being king.

The hand on his arm gave a gentle squeeze. “Do you hear me? You’re wrong.” His voice was firm. “Camelot needs you. You’ll be home soon. It won’t be much longer.”

Arthur wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he nodded his head in acknowledgment, letting Merlin know he had heard. Then he turned his head away again and heard a heavy sigh as the hand was removed. Arthur’s feelings were mixed. He was glad to hear he was making progress in his recovery, yet he was reluctant to have his time with Merlin end. What would happen when he was well enough to return home? Would Merlin disappear into the night? Was Arthur to lose him all over again? Even though it wasn’t rational, Arthur almost wished his injuries were more severe, if only so they could have more time. As distant as they were from one another right now, the thought of Merlin leaving was unbearable. He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about how much still divided them—lies, betrayal, his own rash actions and lack of faith. Instead, he listened as Merlin moved about the room, pretending they were back in Camelot and Merlin would soon slip into the bed beside him and hold him close.

-o-

“I said slowly,” Merlin snapped as Arthur grabbed at him, lightheaded as he stood too fast, eager to be moving again now that Merlin had been letting him out of bed to exercise for short periods of time.

“Sorry. I’m just anxious to get back.”

Merlin’s expression shifted into a scowl. “I’ve told you; you won’t be of any help to anyone if you re-injure yourself by pushing too hard.”

“I know that,” Arthur snapped back.

All their exercise sessions seemed to go this way, tempers flaring, sniping at each other, both of them relieved to be done. Arthur would become agitated with the way his body would react to Merlin’s proximity, instinctively moulding against his side when Merlin wrapped Arthur’s arm around his shoulder for support. Merlin’s scent, so close, would trigger memories that left Arthur tossing and turning into the night. It was torture to touch him, yet to still be so estranged.

“Then act like you know it. You always were a stubborn clotpole. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.”

Fed up, Arthur bit out, “Then why do you? Why are you helping me anyway?” He was tired of side-stepping the issues. Time was running out. He wanted answers.

“I told you before; I don’t want to talk about it.” Merlin’s expression shuttered closed.

Something inside Arthur snapped. The underlying anger that had coloured his every thought and action for months reared to the surface. “Well I do.”

Merlin jerked away from Arthur. “Tough luck.”

Arthur grabbed his upper arm before he could escape. “Enough. Stop running away.”

“Let me go.” 

“No. We are having this discussion.”

“I said, let me go.” Merlin’s voice was steel.

“Or what? Will you use your magic to make me?”

A look of complete devastation broke through onto Merlin’s face. “How do you still understand nothing?” he cried out.

A cold hopelessness spread through him at Merlin’s reaction. Arthur almost felt like giving up—maybe there was too much hurt between them to overcome, but his anger propelled him forward. How could he possibly understand when everyone around him kept secrets from him? Merlin included. “Make me understand,” he roared, giving Merlin a shake.

“I would never use magic against you. Never.” He pulled away again, this time with enough force for Arthur to lose his grip on Merlin’s arm. “You keep asking why I came for you… why I’m helping you, but you should know. You should already know.”

The answer set off another burst of anger inside of Arthur, in part because it mirrored many of his own thoughts, triggered his feelings of guilt. So many things he should have known… “How am I supposed to know? How can I know anything when everyone has been lying to me for years?”

“I had to,” Merlin yelled.

“You should have trusted me.”

“ _You_ should have trusted _me_ ,” Merlin countered, and the anguish was plain on his face. He continued, obviously distraught. “How could you think I would act against you? Attack your own father? You should have known I would never do anything to harm you.”

“You lied to me,” Arthur shouted. “For years, Merlin. How am I supposed to know anything?”

“You should have known that I loved you.”

Arthur’s chest tightened hearing Merlin reference his feeling as being in the past. So, that was the way of it. He had surmised as much, but it still hurt more than he could have imagined to hear it confirmed.

“Do you want to know why I’m here? Why I searched for you, rescued you, healed you?”

“Yes. I’ve told you, I don’t understand,” Arthur said, agitated. Had he not said as much?

“Because I can’t help myself. Even though you hate me now. Even though you see me as nothing more than a threat, a dangerous sorcerer. Even though you would have had me killed, I still couldn’t stop myself.”

Arthur’s mind reeled listening to Merlin. None of those statements were true. He latched onto the last one: “I was not going to let you burn.”

Merlin’s eye flickered up to Arthur’s, disbelieving. Arthur’s own feelings of betrayal were mirrored on Merlin’s face.

“I wasn’t.” He shook his head, his shame surfacing, knowing he did not speak the full truth; there had been moments when he wanted Merlin to die. Arthur tried to clarify. “I was angry. I regret… many of my actions. But I would not have let you die.”

“You immediately thought the worst, threw me in the dungeons.” The raw hurt was naked on his face. Merlin repeated his earlier statement. “You should have known I would never...” he trailed off, overcome by emotion.

Maybe Arthur should have, but he wasn’t magical. He was no seer. He was only a man, full of faults. And he had been surrounded by lies; Merlin wasn’t the only one carrying a deep hurt.

“You betrayed me,” he yelled.

“No,” Merlin insisted. 

“For years, you lied to me. _Years_ , Merlin.”

“Only because I had to. I had no choice.”

“You did have a choice.”

“No. I didn’t believe I did. You can’t know how many times I wanted to tell you…” he broke off, overcome. His cheeks were damp.

“How can I make you understand?” Merlin pleaded. “Everything I’ve done has been for you. I came for you because I had to, because I still love you, no matter how your heart has turned against me. You’re my king, Arthur Pendragon. Everything I am is in service to you.”

Then he dropped to his knees in front of Arthur. “Everything. I submit myself to you. Even if your decision is to take me back to Camelot to burn, I am yours to command. To do with as you will.” He bowed his head and repeated the words, “I submit myself to you. Everything I am is yours.”

Arthur stood in shock, emotions whirling. Both anger and sadness filled him over the knowledge that Merlin could still think Arthur would put him to his death. But stronger than either of those was the hope that flared hearing Merlin still loved him. He had thought such a thing impossible, that he had destroyed any such feelings when he towered before him in Camelot’s dungeons and unleashed his wrath.

Reaching down, Arthur pulled Merlin to his feet, then crushed their lips together. He met no resistance as Merlin’s mouth opened against his, and his heart raced as their tongues slid together. Gods had he missed this. He plundered the inside of Merlin’s mouth, tasting him, licking behind his teeth. Arthur breathed deeply, filling his lungs with Merlin’s scent. “Even this?” he asked pulling away, panting, staring at Merlin’s flushed face. Gods he was beautiful.

“Everything,” Merlin said, his eyes fluttering shut with a moan when Arthur kissed him again.

Arthur didn’t know where to touch first. His hands roved over Merlin’s body, slipping under his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He pulled the garment over Merlin’s head, staring at the expanse of creamy pale skin he had just exposed. He wanted to taste every inch, bite those gorgeous collarbones, flick his tongue across Merlin’s chest and tease his nipples to hardness. But first, he was driven by one overriding desire. Arthur sunk a hand into Merlin’s dark hair and tilted his head sideways, exposing the long expanse of his neck. He moved his mouth to Merlin’s skin, to the sensitive spot behind his ear, and sucked, hard enough to bring the blood to the surface. Merlin went still the moment Arthur’s mouth latched against his skin. When Arthur pulled away to examine the mark, Merlin sagged slightly, as if his knees were giving out, and grabbed Arthur’s biceps, holding tight. Arthur moved his head back down, running his tongue over the mark, and when he began to suck again, Merlin’s fingers tightened against his arm, digging into his skin, as he hissed out a soft breathy, “Yes.”

Merlin’s response, in addition to seeing his mark back on Merlin’s neck, stirred something primal in Arthur. His fist tightened in Merlin’s hair and his other hand pulled Merlin close. When Arthur bit down on the tender spot, pinching the skin between his teeth to ensure his mark would last, Merlin bucked against him, moaning deep and low, his hardness rubbing against Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur’s own response was immediate. He tore his mouth from Merlin’s neck and brought it back to his lips in a bruising kiss. His own member strained at his trousers and he pulled Merlin even closer, tilting his hips, seeking friction, shifting back and forth so he could feel Merlin’s erection against his own. Then he pulled away, taking Merlin’s hands from his arms and turning him around so his back was to Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s hands roved over his stomach, up his chest, pinching his nipples as his mouth sucked more bruises into the back of Merlin’s neck. He slipped his fingers through the fine trail of hair at his belly, sliding the tips of his fingers under the waist of his trousers. He rocked his hips against Merlin’s backside, sliding his length between the crevice of his arse.

The desire to claim Merlin, to make him his, grew stronger. He manoeuvred them over to the bed and pushed Merlin forward, bent over with his chest resting on the mattress. Arthur tugged Merlin’s trousers down with clumsy hands, revealing his rounded backside, aroused even further by the submissive posture as Merlin allowed himself to be manhandled and exposed. Then he draped himself across Merlin’s back, mouth moving across his shoulders, erection fitting back against the cheeks of Merlin’s arse. “This too?” he asked, rutting against him.

Merlin nodded, his head turned to the side, eyes closed, lashes fanned across his face, mouth open and panting. “Yes,” he gasped. “Anything. Everything. I’m yours.”

Arthur pulled back to remove his own clothing, stripping his shirt and trousers quickly, arms and legs getting caught in his haste, his muscles still clumsy from lack of use. Already he missed their connection. When he finally freed himself, he turned around and his breath caught at the sight he was met with; Merlin had his arm bent behind his back, two fingers buried deep in his arse, the jar of salve kept by the bed opened next to him on the mattress.

Immediately, Arthur fell to his knees behind Merlin, staring at those long, agile fingers moving in and out of his slick pink opening. He placed his hands on the globes of Merlin’s arse and gently held them apart for a better look. He watched, mesmerized as Merlin stretched himself open. Then Arthur reached for the salve, dipped his finger in and brought it up alongside Merlin’s fingers. He heard Merlin’s breath hitch, hips bucking backward at Arthur’s touch, as if he couldn’t wait for more. The action reminded Arthur of all the times Merlin had worked him open, all the times Arthur had lain vulnerable, bare, how angry he’d been remembering his complete submission when he’d found out Merlin had been lying to him all along.

Arthur gripped Merlin’s hip with one hand, holding him still; he could see Merlin struggling to comply, the muscles in his arse twitching, the delicate pink skin surrounding his fingers pulsing almost imperceptibly, as if Merlin was unable to control his need. A spike of anger mixed with desire shot through Arthur and he leaned over, sinking his teeth into the fleshy skin of Merlin’s cheek while pushing his finger into Merlin’s hole, alongside Merlin’s own fingers, in one determined move.

He held his finger still, deep inside Merlin’s body, mouth open with his teeth resting motionless on Merlin’s skin, ready to bite down again if necessary. Arthur shut his eyes, concentrating on the heat, the tight channel, the feel of Merlin’s fingers pressed against his own. Then he slowly slid his finger out, then back in, holding tightly onto Merlin’s hip, warning him not to move.

His own erection was throbbing; he could feel the smear of moisture from the tip across his thigh. After another few times of pushing his finger deep, he pulled it out and used that hand to grab Merlin by the wrist, removing his fingers as well. Then he stood, moving Merlin’s hand up by his head and placing his own hand on the back of Merlin’s neck, holding him down while he lined up his erection against Merlin’s slick opening. Arthur didn’t ask this time, just thrust into him with one forceful push, feeling Merlin’s body accept his length, hearing the ragged gasp from Merlin’s mouth as Arthur entered him. The sensation was intense, Merlin’s body tight around him. He thrust again and again, grunting as he slammed into Merlin’s body, the exquisite pleasure magnified by the realization that the world’s most powerful sorcerer, a man whom the elements themselves would obey, was his to command; Merlin’s complete submission was both arousing and satisfying beyond belief.

He thrust several more minutes, slowing down his movements, driving deeper, revelling in the grip of Merlin’s body, the slick hot glide against his length. Even though he felt his body starting to tire, Arthur felt powerful, as if each thrust he made reinforced his claim. He paused, still deep inside, and leaned over Merlin’s back, resting his head between Merlin’s shoulders blades, trying to catch his breath. His heart pounded. He knew he didn’t have the stamina to keep up this pace, his body still so recently healed, but he never wanted this to end, never wanted to let Merlin go, not now that he finally had him in his arms again.

Arthur pushed himself up with his forearms, back arching and looked down at Merlin’s face which was turned to the side on the bed. A chill raced through him when he saw that Merlin lay with his eyes closed, perfectly still, while tears streamed down his cheek. A sick feeling in his stomach replaced his previous enjoyment. His chest felt tight. Arthur silently berated himself. How could he still get everything so wrong?

He pulled out immediately, contrite, loathe to lose their connection, but fearful of making things worse. 

Hesitantly, he asked, “Merlin?” 

“It’s all right,” Merlin choked out, voice shaky. “I’m all right.” More tears slipping down his cheeks betrayed him.

Arthur shut his eyes, swallowed against the tightness in his throat, his earlier hopelessness hovering at the edges. He wasn’t going to let it in, though. They would not go backward from here. He would fix this.

Moving completely off Merlin, Arthur rolled him over and picked up his legs, moving them onto the bed. He rebuked himself again when he realized Merlin’s trousers were still caught around his ankles; in his haste to get inside Merlin, Arthur hadn’t even fully undressed him. He pulled off his trousers then lay beside Merlin in the narrow bed.

Merlin hadn’t moved. His eyes were still closed, drops of moisture leaking from the corners. Arthur shifted onto his elbow and reached out a hand to gently wipe a tear away with his thumb, running his fingers down Merlin’s cheek in a soft caress. Arthur leaned over and followed the path of his hand with his lips, tenderly kissing the corner of Merlin’s eye, his cheekbone, his chin, his lips.

“You’re mine,” he said softly against Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin nodded, breath hitching, eyes still remaining closed.

“And I’m yours,” Arthur continued with another soft kiss, licking the seam of Merlin’s lips, gently probing into his mouth. “I’m yours,” he whispered again, cradling Merlin’s face in his hand as he kissed him.

He reached down between their bodies and pushed Merlin’s thighs apart. His finger found Merlin’s opening and he probed gently, watching Merlin’s reaction. When he didn’t flinch or protest in any way, Arthur moved over Merlin, tucked his knee up toward his body and lined himself up again. This time he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, letting Merlin know, with sweet kisses, with his lips and his tongue, how grateful he was.

Arthur tried to go slowly, but the feeling of being inside Merlin was overwhelming; it felt like home. Like love. As he moved his hips in long deep strokes, heart pounding, he covered Merlin’s face in kisses. Reaching between them, he found Merlin’s erection, as rigid as his own, and wrapped his hand around it, giving it long firm strokes. Merlin answered with a low moan. 

“Open your eyes,” Arthur said. “I want to see you.”

Merlin did as he requested and Arthur’s heart skipped a beat as those familiar blue eyes stared back at him, full of hope, dark with desire, and with unmistakable love.

Arthur wanted to convey the depths of his own feelings, his deep remorse, his abiding devotion. He tried to think of the words, but he was awash in feeling, and afraid he’d once again say the wrong thing. Then in a moment of blinding clarity, he knew.

“I want to see all of you,” he said. “I want everything.”

Immediately, Merlin’s eyes glowed gold and his body arched against Arthur’s, mouth opening in a gasp, as if it had been a struggle to hold it in. Arthur stared into his eyes, fascinated, stunned by their beauty. He writhed in pleasure as Merlin’s magic washed over him, like a sensuous wave of unbearable pleasure, caressing every inch of his skin. He felt vibrant and alive, every nerve ending electrified. With one more deep thrust he was coming, his body shaking as he emptied himself inside Merlin, the magic swirling around him like an eddy, keeping him riding on a wave of ecstasy surpassing anything he had ever known. He cried out again as Merlin found his own release, his seed shooting between them, coating Arthur’s hand. As Merlin’s stiffened beneath him, body tightening around Arthur’s sensitive length, Arthur shuddered, wondering if it were possible to survive such bliss.

Then the magic slipped away, whispered touches against his skin; the gold in Merlin’s eyes faded back to blue. Arthur covered his face in kisses, murmured soft words against his skin—how beautiful he was, how perfect, how much he’d missed him, how deeply he loved him. He pulled him close, burying his face in Merlin’s neck, whispering against his skin, “You’re mine, Merlin. Mine. And I’m yours.” Merlin’s hands reached to wrap around Arthur, stroking down his back, holding him close. Arthur sighed as he felt Merlin bury his face in his hair.

“My Arthur,” Merlin whispered in return.

-o-

Arthur ran his fingers through the dark head of hair resting against his chest, enjoying the silky slide against his fingers, the press of Merlin’s body against his own, their ankles hooked together. His other hand splayed across Merlin’s back and he revelled in the gentle movement of Merlin’s lungs expanding and contracting as he slept. Arthur knew he should probably be sleeping as well, but after being apart for so long, Arthur didn’t want to miss a single moment with Merlin. They had spent the last few days reconnecting in every way possible, relearning each other’s bodies, hours lost in pleasure, talking far into the night.

The conversations had been difficult. Arthur learned how Merlin had gone to Ealdor after he escaped Camelot, home to Hunith while he healed. Arthur heard the heartbreak underlying Merlin’s tale, recognized the deep devastation Merlin had felt. They were lying in bed, Merlin’s voice impassive as he related the events. Arthur’s guilt felt like a crushing weight on his chest. He wrapped his arms around Merlin, draping his leg over his body, burying his face in his neck, holding him close. His eyes stung with unshed tears. “Can you ever forgive me?” he whispered against his skin. 

Merlin’s arms snaked around his back and he stroked his skin with soothing motions. “Shhh,” he said. “I forgave you a long time ago. It’s in the past.” Arthur wondered how that could be true.

In turn Arthur tried to convey his sense of betrayal—how vulnerable he had let himself be, how Merlin had been the one he had clung to when everywhere else he was surrounded by uncertainty and lies. His refuge. 

Now it was Merlin’s turn to ask, “Can you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Arthur answered. “I understand now.” He meant what he said.

Arthur also learned how Merlin sought him out as soon as he was able, following him at a distance, determined to still keep him safe. He heard about his fear when he had lost track of him, confused as well by the magical fog, not realizing at first what was happening, his shame at allowing Arthur to be captured. 

“The most powerful sorcerer in the land, brought down by a little fog,” Merlin said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “I’d never forgive myself if I had lost you. Never. Gods, I was almost too late.” He clutched at Arthur, fingers digging into his shoulders, then kissed him frantically, as if to reassure himself Arthur was real.

Arthur’s hands gentled him, stroking down his arms. He slowed their kisses until they turned soft and sweet. “But you weren’t,” he said tenderly against Merlin’s lips. “You weren’t too late. I’m here thanks to you.”

Arthur learned all the other times Merlin had used magic to protect him over the years, how much he had risked to keep him safe from harm. And Arthur let Merlin know his own role in Merlin’s escape, how he couldn’t bear to see him die, even if everything he thought he had seen proved to be true. He told him how he longed for him, dreamed of him at night, was driven almost to the point of madness to find him again.

They consoled each other, reassuring one another that they would never let misunderstanding or a lack of trust come between them again. That meant accepting Merlin’s words at truth—that he really had forgiven Arthur. Arthur would work on learning to forgive himself as well. He was determined to do better in the future, to be better, to build a future with Merlin beside him. 

They talked of practical matters as well, what information Merlin had been able to gain about Cenred’s plans. Arthur knew his prolonged absence from Camelot put the kingdom at risk. Times of transition—the death of one king and the coronation of another—were tumultuous at best, often with neighbouring kingdoms primed to attack, eager to test the new king’s mettle. With Cenred’s gathering of magical allies, the risk was even greater; Arthur knew he needed to return home soon.

He still felt conflicted about his worthiness to be king; he was no better than any other man, save for his skill with a sword. But he had been born to the role; the people expected him to know the best course of action. He could only but try. 

This acceptance of his role was something else for which he had Merlin to be thankful. The revelations about his father had been difficult to accept. The knowledge that he had not only violated his own daughter, but would have executed her and their son in his righteous stance against magic changed everything Arthur had ever thought about his reign. The long-ingrained desire for his father’s approval now seemed foolish, even as it was difficult to deny the habit. 

Arthur’s understanding of duty had altered as well. Of what use was duty when one blindly followed a king whose actions were so heinous? He wished now he had done more to persuade Uther toward leniency. Not that it would have had much effect, he admitted. His father’s zealous persecution of magic users was like a sickness. Truly, Arthur half hoped that Uther had at some point veered into madness; it was unthinkable to believe his decisions were made with a rational mind. Arthur had, however, obeyed the laws and saw to their enforcement. Was he not complicit in this evil?

No longer. Coming to understand the depths of his father's cruelty gave him the impetus he needed to mentally break from his father’s expectations. He thought of the times he had felt most capable of leading, the times when he felt like a king. They all came back to Merlin—his faith in Arthur, his reassurances he was a good man and would be a great king. Even here, before they had reached their understanding, he sat at Arthur’s bedside and said, words ringing with certainty, Camelot needed him. 

Camelot may need Arthur, but Arthur needed Merlin. Arthur knew, without a doubt, he would defy his father were he still alive. He was unwilling to let Merlin go. He would change the laws, re-make the world into a place Merlin could stand by his side. His father would have called such plans the worst kind of betrayal, an abandonment of duty, but Arthur knew he’d never have peace in a kingdom crafted by hatred and lies.

Something Leon had said to him drifted into his thoughts: _There is much value in surrounding yourself by men unafraid to speak their minds._  
  
Arthur thought of Gwaine, how he’d knelt at Arthur’s feet when Arthur was committing an act directly against the crown. How he’d refused to follow Arthur blindly in his folly. His father would have considered it treason. Arthur saw his actions differently now, those of a man following his conscience, not letting duty stand in the way of what he thought was right.

Likewise, he understood better Lancelot and Guinevere’s betrayal. If their passion was even a fraction of what he’d found with Merlin, it was unstoppable as the tides. He loved them both, still. Now that he and Merlin had found each other again, Arthur could spare some small measure of happiness for them. Lancelot had always led with his heart; the old hero worship had faded, but the desire to be the sort of man to make Lancelot proud lingered. There were worse things to aspire to, Arthur decided.

But it was to Merlin Arthur looked now for approval. Merlin who inspired his passion to be king. Merlin he was determined to keep safe. Merlin he could not live without. When Arthur thought of the vast number of people who would be looking to him for answers, the responsibilities awaiting, the inevitable battle ahead, it was impossible not to be overwhelmed. When he narrowed his scope, instead thought of the impact each decision would have for Merlin, the way became smooth; he felt he’d know what to do. He would let his heart lead.

Merlin stirred against him, then lifted his head, eyes bleary from sleep, shadows dancing across his skin in the firelight. A slow smile bloomed across his face; Arthur answered with one of his own, tightening his arm around him.

“Can’t sleep?” Merlin asked, his voice rough and slightly slurred.

“Just thinking,” Arthur said.

“About?”

“Shhh. Nothing that can’t keep until morning. Go back to sleep.”

His heart swelled when Merlin shifted, draping his knee over Arthur’s legs, face nuzzling into Arthur’s neck. He buried his own face in Merlin’s hair, breathing deeply, then he closed his eyes and followed him into sleep.

-o-

“It’s time for me to return home,” Arthur said. “I’ll head out this afternoon. I shouldn’t delay any longer.” He stood in the doorway looking out into the trees, eyeing the weather. He still tired easily and his leg ached, but he was recovered enough to ride. Truly, he should have begun the journey days ago, but each morning he found new excuses; he knew the real reason was his reluctance to part from Merlin.

“I can’t go with you,” Merlin said, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist. He rested his chin on Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur wrapped his own arms over Merlin’s, holding him close, enjoying Merlin’s warmth against his back. “I know. But it won’t be long. I promise. I’ll call the Council immediately.” He intended to make the changes to the laws regarding magic users his very first task.

“They’ll resist.”

“It doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything.”

“Arthur—”

“No, the decision’s been made. I know some of my father’s men will fight me. But I also know others will welcome the change. Lancelot knew about you. Gwaine as much did. Who knows how many others were aware of your powers, how many other magic users may have been shielded within Camelot’s own walls.”

Arthur turned in Merlin’s arms so they were facing each other. He placed his palms against Merlin’s cheeks and looked deep into his eyes. “I cannot reign over a kingdom where you are not welcome,” he said, leaning to close the few inches that separated them, kissing Merlin on his lips. “They’ll see sense eventually. They’ll have to, especially if we’re to defeat Cenred’s forces.”

After hearing Merlin’s account of the allies Cenred had gathered, Arthur knew they needed Merlin if they were to have even a chance of defeating him. Rumour was he had more than one powerful sorcerer on his side.

“We will,” Merlin assured him. “Whenever you need me, I’ll come. Just call for me and I’ll be there.” They had already pre-arranged a way for Arthur to summon Merlin—twinned objects linked by a spell. Once Arthur spoke the words into his, Merlin’s would respond by glowing and turning hot to the touch. “I’m ready to fight by your side.”

“That’s where you should always be,” Arthur said, kissing him again. “By my side.” Merlin melted into his arms and Arthur knew he’d be delaying his departure for just a few hours longer.

-o-

Arthur spurred the horse faster as he approached Camelot. His sense of anticipation increased the closer he got. He felt almost as if he were returning home to a lover, his anxiousness to see Camelot’s ivory walls, her gleaming towers stretching toward the sky, causing his pulse to race with excitement. He had hoped to make it home the night before, but he was still weak and found himself needing to stop for rest long before he had anticipated. Better to heed his body’s warnings rather than push himself too hard too soon and undo all Merlin’s hard work.

His first night without Merlin curled up against his side since their reunion had been as difficult as he’d imagined. Arthur tossed and turned, missing the way Merlin would tuck his head under Arthur’s chin, his breath warm against his skin. He missed the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way Merlin would instinctively seek Arthur out while he slept, limbs splaying themselves across his body. Their separation wouldn’t be long, he reminded himself. And once Cenred was dealt with, he’d have Merlin back in his chambers for good.

As he crested a small rise, Camelot came into view, white stone set against a backdrop of deep blue sky. Arthur caught his breath at her beauty, his joy at the sight causing an almost painful ache low in his belly. How could he have ever considered not coming home, leaving Camelot behind? Truly, he loved this land and her people. If depth of feeling were all that was required to be king, he doubted there could be one more suited than he.

Dressed as he was in plain clothes, hood pulled over his head shielding his face, he attracted curious glances as he rode through town, but no recognition. When he passed through the castle gates, however, he saw Leon gathered with a small group of knights outside the stables. Their horses were saddled with packs and they appeared as if they were about to ride out. Leon looked up at him with a quick glance then did a double-take, staring intently.

Arthur dismounted and continued to walk toward the group, leading his horse. Leon spoke to one of the knights, handing him his reins, then started walked toward him to greet him. When he got closer, Arthur could tell the moment his identity was confirmed. Leon shouted, “Arthur!” and began to walk faster and faster before breaking into a run. Arthur dropped the reins to throw his arms around Leon, hugging him tightly, slapping him on the back as they greeted each other with joyous laughter.

Leon took a step back and put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, holding him still while he gave him a good once over. “You’re looking well, sire,” he said.

“Better than I was.”

“Were you injured?”

“Grievously.”

“What happened?”

“I was captured. Morgana. Tortured.”

Leon’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “How did you escape?”

“Merlin.”

“Merlin?” Leon asked with surprise.

“Come,” Arthur said, extricating himself from Leon’s grip and retrieving the reins he had dropped, beginning to walk toward the castle. “We have much to speak of. I want the Council convened right away. First order of business on the morrow.”

“I’ll see to it. Arthur…” he added, grabbing Arthur’s arm to still him for a moment. When Arthur turned to him with a questioning look, Leon said, unable to hold back a big smile, “It’s good to have you back.”

Arthur smiled in return. “It’s good to be back. Where were you headed?” he asked, nodding toward the men who stood waiting their turn to welcome him home.

“To look for you,” Leon said with a laugh.

-o-

Arthur rapped on the door, pushing it open slowly when there was no answer. “Gaius?” he called out.

Gaius was leaning over his table, intent on his work. He lifted his head at Arthur’s voice and whirled around.

“Your Majesty,” he said with a gasp, hurrying over to him and pulling him into a hug.

Arthur, surprised, returned the embrace. Indeed he had been unsure of his reception; their last encounter had been fraught with tension.

“We’ve been so worried,” Gaius said, still holding him close.

“I’m fine now, thanks to Merlin.”

Gaius pulled back to look at Arthur, eyebrow raised. “Merlin?” he asked, a slight tremour in his voice. Arthur could tell he was holding back asking more. Perhaps he was unsure of the reception as well.

“Come, sit with me,” Arthur said. “I have much to tell you.”

After Arthur had caught Gaius up on recent events, assuring him numerous times about Merlin’s well being, his own promise of Merlin’s continued safety and eventual return, he turned the conversation to other serious matters.

“I need to ask you some questions about my father.”

Gaius’ expression changed, becoming both wary and cautious. “If I can answer them, I will,” he said.

“Were you aware that the child Morgana carried was Uther’s?” Arthur asked.

Gaius’ shock and horrified expression were immediate. Arthur was relieved to note his reaction could not possibly be feigned. He had hoped Gaius had not been complicit in such a terrible secret, but he knew the men had been friends for years; a small part of him had wondered.

“Are you certain?” Gaius asked.

“I am,” Arthur answered. He had no proof, but he knew in his heart it was truth.

Gaius put his hand up to his forehead, brow furrowed. After a few moments he looked at Arthur. “Your father was not always like this,” he said. “Over the years, he… changed. Became harder… inflexible. Your mother’s death was part of it, of course, but I don’t really know what made him into the man he became.” He paused. “I assure you, I did not know.”

“Were you aware of Morgana’s true parentage then?” Arthur asked next. “Did you know she was my father’s daughter?”

“I have long suspected. It was nothing we ever discussed. But, yes, in my heart, I suppose I did know.”

Arthur nodded, accepting his answer. “What about Gorlois?” Arthur asked next. “Did my father really send him to his death?”

“There were rumours…” Gaius said, shaking his head. He sighed heavily. “We were friends for a very long time, your father and I. I never wanted to know the answer to this question, so I turned a blind eye… did not ask…” He appeared lost in thought for a few moments. “Maybe if I had confronted him… maybe if—”

He stopped when Arthur put his hand over his arm, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “You are not responsible for my father’s actions.”

“I feel as if I failed him. Failed you. Most certainly failed Morgana…”

“We can’t change the past,” Arthur said. “I have my own regrets. Heavy ones, at that. But now it is time to forgive. We must look to the future.”

Gaius stared at him thoughtfully. “You’re a good man, Arthur Pendragon, and will be an even greater king. I have always believed you to have a great destiny before you.”

Arthur smiled, thinking how similar such a statement was to one Merlin had spoken. “I will do my very best,” he said.

“That’s all any of us can ever do,” said Gaius in reply.

-o-

Arthur sought out Gwaine next. He had not been among the group of knights with Leon, but Leon assured him he was still in Camelot. When he was unable to locate him, Arthur went to his chambers, stopping a servant en route to have some food sent up. He was surprised to find Gwaine outside his door, waiting for him.

They eyed each other warily, then Arthur entered his chambers, holding the door open for Gwaine. “Come in,” he said. Gwaine followed him inside.

“Have you spoken to Leon?” Arthur asked.

“No, I’ve been waiting to speak with you.”

Arthur nodded. “Then you should know that I found Merlin,” he began.

Gwaine’s head jerked in surprise as he stared intently at Arthur. “And what is to be his fate?”

“That is yet to be determined.”

A flush of anger appeared on Gwaine’s face. Before he could launch into a tirade, ripping old wounds open anew, Arthur held up his hand to stem Gwaine’s words.

“You misunderstand me. I mean only that the future is yet to be written.”

Gwaine’s shoulders relaxed, but his expression remained guarded.

“Then what of his immediate future? Where is he now?” Gwaine asked.

“He’s safe.”

“But for how long?” Gwaine’s voice was agitated, as if he were gearing up for an argument.

“The Council meets at first light on the morrow. The old laws regarding magic will be done away with. A new era is dawning, one where Merlin and his kind will have no reason to fear Camelot, unless they raise a hand against us.”

“Do you still believe Merlin killed your father?”

“I know he did not.”

“And will he return home once the Council has met?”

“He will come when I call. Then he will fight by my side when we face Cenred’s threat.”

Gwaine’s eyes narrowed as he processed this information. Arthur decided further clarification was needed.

“I have made… many mistakes. I regret… much.” Arthur stumbled over the words. It was difficult for him to admit his weaknesses, but he needed to give Gwaine his thanks. “I am grateful to you for many things—for stopping my sword in the great hall, for your assistance in helping Merlin escape… for speaking plainly to me when I lost my senses.” He paused, then he looked Gwaine straight in the eye, trying to convey his sincerity. “Most of all, I am grateful you were here, in Camelot, when I returned.”

“You are my king,” Gwaine said, voice clear and firm, as if there could be no other response.

Arthur gave a little huff, nodding his head slightly, feeling a warmth bloom in his chest. Maybe it was as simple as that.

“There is much to be done,” Arthur said. “Leon tells me there have been some small skirmishes along the border.”

“That is correct.”

“And Cenred has gathered his forces? An attack is imminent?”

“As best as we can tell. One of your men has been monitoring the situation closely. He’s been reporting back to me when he can. I currently know of his whereabouts. If you like, I can send for him now.”

“Of whom do we speak?” Arthur asked.

“Lancelot.”

-o-

Arthur sat in his chambers, sipping a cup of wine. The day had been long; tomorrow promised to be longer still. He had convened the Council at first light and relayed all that had happened since his disappearance. Then he outlined the changes he intended for Camelot’s magic users. He had met with less resistance than he anticipated, receiving support in unexpected quarters, namely a few of his father’s oldest allies. Mayhap he had underestimated the willingness to change from some of Camelot’s old guard. In turn, he had gotten some unexpected resistance from a few men he had not expected to take issue. After long heated arguments, some refining of a few points, Camelot’s new laws regarding magic were recorded and in place.

Of equal importance, the charges against Merlin—for treason, magic, Uther’s death, and his escape from Camelot—were rescinded and his name was cleared. There were some who still wanted to punish Merlin for his escape, even as they took Arthur’s word that he was not the sorcerer who had committed the crime against the king. Arthur, however, would accept no less than complete exoneration. He stressed Merlin’s rescue, his healing of Arthur, saving him from certain death, and also his upcoming role in the battle before them.

He could tell many in the Council were still uncomfortable with the thought of a sorcerer going into battle side by side with the King, but Arthur spoke of the future, the failure of the old ways, and how Camelot would surely fall were they not prepared to meet their foe with every defence at their disposal. In the end, he had his way.

All in all it had been an exhausting morning, but Arthur was satisfied with the outcome. For maybe the first time since he had come into the crown, his actions felt like those of a king.

Lancelot had returned later in the day as well. Their reunion had been emotional with apologies from both sides, assurances of forgiveness. Arthur thanked him for continuing to aid Camelot, even after he sent him away. Lancelot responded with a simple, “My duty is here.” Arthur was reminded of the doubts he had held long ago, how he feared the Knights of Camelot were broken beyond repair. He had seen them stretched to their limits, torn apart by anger, betrayal, and distrust. Now it was clear they were not so easily undone. A thread ran between them, binding them together, even through the worst of days. All his men were good men, every last one. They would be victorious against Cenred; he felt it in his bones. The Knights of Camelot would prevail. 

Yes, he thought, sipping thoughtfully on his wine, he was grateful to have men such as Lancelot and Gwaine on his side. Leon’s words once again ran through his head; Arthur hoped his men never stopped speaking up for what they thought was right. That didn’t mean, however, they were without their faults. Nor was he free of them himself, he was well aware. Arthur thought back to the tail end of the conversation with Gwaine the day before.

“You know I am grateful to you for all you have done for Merlin,” he said, grabbing Gwaine’s arm as he turned to leave.

Gwaine looked at him curiously. “Yes, you’ve said as much.”

“I know you’ve long had feelings for him—” He cut short his words, frowning as Gwaine scowled and tried to pull away. Arthur gripped tighter, preventing his attempts. “I know about your feelings for Merlin,” he repeated. “I know I’ve said some cruel words in the past, but you need to know…” Arthur paused to make sure Gwaine was listening. He continued, “When Merlin returns, he is mine.”

Gwaine gave a curt nod and Arthur dropped his arm, allowing him to leave.

A knock on his door roused him from his thoughts.

“Enter,” he called out.

Arthur looked up to see Merlin standing in his doorway. His heart leapt at the sight. Rising from his seat, he hurried across the room and swept Merlin into his arms, kissing him until they both were breathless. Arthur leaned back and looked Merlin over from his head to his feet, assuring himself he was unharmed, drinking in his fill of Merlin, finally back in his arms again.

“You’re here,” he said.

“I am. You called.”

“I did.” The moment the Council had ended, Arthur had used the spelled object to let Merlin know it was time to come home.

“You must be tired. And hungry. Shall I send for something to eat?”

“I am tired. And hungry. But not just now. It can wait,” Merlin said, then he pulled Arthur close to kiss him again.

-o-

They met the enemy sooner than anticipated. Arthur had returned not a day too soon. Arthur and Merlin fought shoulder to shoulder, Arthur’s sword flashing, protecting Merlin, while Merlin identified the sorcerers within the enemies’ midst and countered their attacks. At one point during a lull in the melee, they caught each other’s eye and both broke out in a broad grin, high on adrenaline and invigorated by their successes. The knights and the rest of Camelot’s army fought well, pushing Cenred’s forces back.

Then the tide turned. Cenred’s men fell back and a new enemy rose to take their place—skeletal warriors who could not be felled by arrow or steel. Swords sliced harmlessly through the air, having no effect at all. The skeletal army’s own weapons, however, proved deadly as Camelot’s men began to fall. Arthur saw Bedivere go down, Owain soon after. He looked to Merlin in alarm and saw Merlin’s assaults having similar effect; his magical attacks went right through them.

“Fall back,” Arthur cried. “Fall back.”

When they had put some distance between themselves and this new foe, overlooking the field of battle from a small rise, Arthur motioned for Leon, Lancelot and Merlin to come closer.

“Have you any ideas?” he asked.

Merlin spoke first. “Nothing I’ve tried has stopped them. There must be an external power source; someone or something is controlling them. We need to find it.”

“Can we do nothing right now?” Arthur asked. What if they were unable to locate this power source? Would all be lost?

“I can try to slow them down,” Merlin offered.

“Do it,” Arthur commanded.

Merlin sprang into action, running out into the open. A vast field lay before him, the skeletal army in the distance, their approach slow and methodical, but unrelenting. His arms shot up toward the sky, fingers spread, head tilted back and then he was chanting words in an ancient language, eyes glowing gold. Dark clouds rolled in across the sky, the day turning dark as the sunlight was blotted out. Arthur saw Leon flinch out of the corner of his eye when a loud boom of thunder sounded as lightning flashes crackled illuminating the dark sky. “Gods,” Lancelot whispered, his voice filled with awe.

Then the rain poured down, a heavy deluge that turned the field to mud. The skeletal warriors slowed, their feet getting stuck in the earth. Arthur watched as one toppled forward, its hand reaching out to catch its fall, the hand getting stuck in turn. Several more followed and Arthur breathed an inward sigh of relief at the respite. 

“Leon, take some men and circle round behind. We can at least fight their human soldiers while we look for this power source.” 

“Yes, sire.”

“Lancelot, you do the same, but from the other direction. With luck we’ll flush them out. Whoever or whatever it is has to be close by, I would imagine, to control such a large force.”

Lancelot nodded in acknowledgment. “How long can he keep this up?” Lancelot asked, head tilting toward Merlin.

“I know not, so best hurry,” Arthur answered. 

His men took action immediately, gathering the knights and splitting off into two groups, circling around the skeletal army on each side.

Arthur waited with the remaining men, scanning the field, looking for anything unusual. He’d prefer to be on the move instead of standing and watching, but he would not risk leaving Merlin’s safety in the hands of another.

Although the rain continued to pour down, obscuring his vision, Arthur could see that the mud would not hinder their advance much longer. The front row of skeletons had fallen and many more still struggled, but others were walking over the backs of the fallen, slowly advancing their charge. 

Arthur could tell when the men reached their targets; the skirmishes at the back of the army were difficult to see, but he recognized the glint of steel when lightning flashed. He worried that Merlin must be tiring, remembering the conversation they had in the cottage about the cost magic bore. Yet he looked steady, keeping the sky dark with clouds and the rain steadily coming down.

A movement to the southeast caught Arthur’s eye. Two figures on horseback were approaching. He recognized Cenred, even from this distance. The other was a stranger. She dismounted and threw back her hood; Arthur could see long blonde hair. Then her hand extended toward Merlin and a bolt of magic was flying his way. 

“Merlin,” Arthur shouted in warning, running toward him. But Merlin was already in action, one arm still pointing at the sky, the other swinging down, a matching bolt shooting from his hand to intercept the attack. The two arcs of light fought for dominance, both pushing at the other, but neither was able to gain further ground. The sorceress formed her other hand into a fist and then she was hurling balls of fire in Merlin’s direction.

Forced to abandon the storm, Merlin deflected the attack, hurling spells of his own. Without Merlin to control them, the clouds rolled back and the sky cleared, the heavy rains running off into the grass. Arthur stood guard, but he felt helpless, unable to assist in the battle before him. Soon, however, he had his own fight to worry about as the skeletons, no longer hampered as before, closed in. Arthur rushed down the hill to meet them, determined to keep them away from Merlin.

His blade swung furiously, and he was surprised when his weapon connected with a loud clang. The sorceress’ attention must have been too divided to keep up both the attack on Merlin and the skeletons’ incorporeal forms. He fought hardily, parrying blows from all directions. His men were right beside him, holding the enemy back as best they were able. But there were too many, and they kept coming, one after the other. Arthur cried out as a blade slipped through his defences and sliced his thigh. 

“Arthur,” he heard Merlin shout, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the many skeletal warriors he fought or risk even more grievous harm. The blows kept coming, an unending assault. “Enough,” Arthur heard Merlin yell, and he was reminded of the moment in his prison when Merlin unleashed a spell upon Morgana. Just as before, Arthur heard a loud blast and the sky lit up like fire. In the ensuing quiet, a scream rung out, “No!” 

Morgana.

Arthur’s eyes searched her out and he saw her kneeling by the body of the felled sorceress, Cenred’s body on the ground beside her. A staff with a large glowing blue crystal was in Morgana’s hand. Arthur felt another slice on his neck as his opponents pressed their attack, and cried out again, distracting the attention of Merlin, who stood swaying, exhaustion clearly marking his face. Morgana immediately took advantage, standing to hurl a spell in Merlin’s direction with an anguished scream.

“Watch out!” Arthur warned, but Merlin had already seen the threat, blocking the spell with one of his own. Then he was hurling another at the blue stone, a vision of power with eyes of flame. He had never looked more beautiful. The crystal shattered in a blinding blaze of light and Arthur watched the fallout as if in slow motion. The skeletons disintegrated in a cloud of dust, settling silently to the ground; Arthur’s sword blow met no resistance as it continued its swing with a whoosh of air; and Merlin crumpled silently to the ground where he lay motionless on the grass.

“No!” Arthur cried out, rushing to Merlin’s side and dropping to his knees, flinging his sword aside, ignoring the sharp pain in his thigh. He took Merlin’s face between his hands, his gloves dark against Merlin’s pale white skin. “Merlin, gods, Merlin,” he said, frantically hoping for him to be all right. He moved one hand up to his face, biting the tip of his glove to pull it from his fingers, then he searched out a pulse at Merlin’s neck. He almost sobbed with relief when he felt the slow steady beat beneath his fingertips. “Thank the gods,” Arthur whispered in a ragged voice.

Merlin’s eyes fluttered open and Arthur drowned in the dark blue of his irises, unable to look away. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, the tightness in his chest was so severe. Merlin reached up a hand to wipe at Arthur’s cheek. Arthur hadn’t even realized he was crying. “I’m all right,” Merlin said, voice slurred and slow, as if it were taking an enormous effort to speak. “I’ll probably need to sleep for a week, but I’m all right, Arthur. I promise.” Arthur gathered him up into his arms, buried his face in Merlin’s hair and held him close, the sounds of battle low in the distance.

“I promise,” Merlin said again.

-o-

Arthur paced back and forth, waiting for Gaius to finish with his patient.

“Sire,” Gaius said when he could turn his attention to the impatient king, “I’ve told you already, he’s fine. He’ll awaken when he’s ready.”

“But it’s been two days.”

“And it might yet be two more,” Gaius said, ushering Arthur toward the door. “I assure you, there’s nothing physically wrong with him. His body is simply recovering from such an extensive use of magic.”

“I’d like you to check on him again.”

Gaius threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. “Your Majesty, as you can see, there are many wounded men who need my care—”

“But Merlin—”

“Yes, fine,” Gaius capitulated, knowing Arthur wouldn’t rest until he had agreed. “I’ll come by to check on him later.”

“Good. Good. Thank you, Gaius.”

“You’re very welcome. Now please…” he said, motioning Arthur out the door.

“Right. Later then.”

“Yes, go on.”

Arthur knew he was being unreasonable, but this was Merlin, after all. Once the skeleton army had fallen, his men had easily subdued the remaining human soldiers, demoralized by Cenred’s fall. He and his knights returned home victorious. The battle, however, had not been without cost. The weight of the fallen was a heavy burden on Arthur’s heart. He wished he could share his grief with Merlin, receive comfort in his arms, but Merlin had sunk into a deep slumber after his brief words on the field of battle; he hadn’t woken since. After the battle, Arthur had gathered Merlin in front of him on his horse and rode with him all the way back to Camelot, arms wrapped tightly around Merlin’s waist, Merlin’s body leaning back against his chest. When they had arrived, Arthur himself carried Merlin up to his chambers, not trusting anyone else with his precious cargo. He stripped Merlin of his clothing, bathed him with a soft cloth, and arranged the bed clothes over his body, a soft pillow beneath his head.

Then he waited.

Of Morgana there had been no sign. After Merlin’s final magic blast, she seemingly disappeared. No one could recall sighting her again. Arthur had been too preoccupied with Merlin to check if she had survived. When it became clear she had escaped, Arthur made it known that she was not to be harmed were her whereabouts discovered. She had been done grievous harm, Arthur thought, and not only Uther’s crimes against her. Arthur could imagine her state of mind knowing her lover had been killed trying to avenge her. Although still conflicted about his father’s death, Arthur felt he owed a debt to the fallen sorcerer, knowing he must have taken Morgana in when she had fled Camelot, frightened and alone and carrying Uther’s bastard child. Morgana’s anguished cry at the fallen sorceress led Arthur to believe she had lost yet another who was close to her heart. His own treatment at her hands would take time to forget, but he understood her hatred now. He understood loss. And he was beginning to understand forgiveness. He was tired of anger. Maybe one day, these wounds between them would heal as well.

Later, after Gaius visited his chambers and repeated his assurances that Merlin was fine, Arthur readied for bed then slid under the blankets beside Merlin. He pulled Merlin back against his chest, wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in Merlin’s hair, gently kissing the back of his neck. In the morning maybe Merlin would wake.

It wasn’t the morning, nor the next afternoon, but in early evening Merlin’s eyes finally opened, bright and blue and crinkling at the corners when they caught sight of Arthur.

Arthur hurried to his side. “You’re awake,” he said, gently stroking Merlin’s cheek with his thumb.

“I am,” Merlin said, reaching up to grasp Arthur’s hand, bringing it to his lips. His voice was gruff from disuse.

“How do you feel?” Arthur asked, staring as Merlin’s pink luscious lips pressed soft kisses against his fingers.

“Hungry. Thirsty,” he said between kisses. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days,” Arthur said. The tension he’d carried throughout the extended length of time was evident. He gently extricated his hand from Merlin’s, saying, “Let me get you some water.” Arthur walked over to pour a cup from a pitcher and tear a piece of bread from the loaf on the table. He returned and handed them to Merlin who was now sitting up. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and watched closely as Merlin ate every last crumb and drank every drop. “More?” he asked.

“Not right now. In a little while.”

Arthur took the empty cup from Merlin and set it on the bedside table. “Do you need more sleep?” he asked. 

“No.”

“You still look tired.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said, reaching for Arthur’s hand and bringing it back to his lips. “You’re the one who looks tired,” he said, before sucking Arthur’s pointer finger into his mouth.

Arthur stared, dazed, as the heat of Merlin’s mouth engulfed his finger, the wet slick of his tongue stroking him, Merlin’s cheeks hollowing as he slid the finger in and out. Arthur’s breath caught when Merlin added a second finger. 

After sucking on them a few more minutes, Merlin pulled the fingers from his mouth and said, “Take off your clothes, Arthur.”

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Arthur asked, pupils dilated, voice husky.

“I’ve rested plenty. Take off your clothes.”

Arthur did as he directed, pulling his tunic over his head, standing to strip his trousers off. He was already erect. Merlin watched every move, his expression hungry.

“Now lie down,” Merlin said. 

“Bossy,” Arthur joked, but did as he said, shifting so he was lying full length on the bed.

Merlin moved to straddle his hips then leaned over to kiss Arthur, shifting his hips so their erections rubbed together. Arthur moaned into his mouth and reached up to sink his fingers into Merlin’s silky hair, losing himself in the taste of Merlin’s lips, the heat of his skin. He loosened his grip when Merlin started working his way down Arthur’s body, worshipping Arthur’s chest with his mouth, sucking on his nipple, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud while his hand played with the other one, rubbing his thumb back and forth, slowly and steadily. As Merlin continued to give his nipples attention, Arthur bucked his hips, achingly hard, seeking friction, his growing desire overwhelming. This wasn’t magic, but it almost felt like it. Maybe it was just that it was Merlin… Merlin’s mouth, Merlin’s hands, who could put him in such a state. Arthur wondered how he ever thought he could live without this.

“Merlin… please…” Arthur said, moving his hips again, begging for attention.

Merlin obliged, sliding further down Arthur’s body, tonguing at his belly, gently biting at his hips. Arthur’s fingers were back in his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. When Merlin’s mouth closed over Arthur’s hard length, Arthur’s hand clenched into a fist and he let out a low shuddering moan. “Gods, yes,” he said.

Merlin’s tongued at Arthur’s foreskin, lapping at the fluid at the tip and then he took Arthur deep, sliding his tongue along the underside of Arthur’s length as he pulled back slowly, sucking gently. Arthur moaned, a tightness coiling in his belly as Merlin repeated the action again and again, sucking harder, tongue continuing its movements. He was already nearing his release.

“Wait… stop,” Arthur panted. “I’m too close.” Arthur didn’t want to come like this. He wanted Merlin inside him.

Taking Arthur deep one last time, Merlin pulled off and bit gently at Arthur’s inner thigh, before soothing the spot with his tongue. Then he scooted farther down, taking Arthur’s sac into his mouth, rolling it gently with his tongue. Arthur let out an appreciative moan, bending his leg to tilt his hips upwards. Merlin placed his palm against the back of Arthur’s strong thigh and pushed it towards Arthur’s chest, exposing his hole. He removed his mouth from Arthur’s sac then tongued underneath, teasing down with tiny licks.

Arthur’s head pressed back into the bed, arms tense at his sides, body taut as he felt Merlin’s wet tongue lick at his entrance. He felt Merlin push his other thigh back as well, then bury his face between Arthur’s legs, mouthing at his opening, breaching it with his tongue. Merlin pushed in as deeply as he could, then licked with wet sloppy motions, before pushing in again. And then he repeated his actions while Arthur fell apart, writhing above him, tossing his head from side to side, small keening noises escaping his throat. It was almost too much.

“Enough,” he gasped, arm reaching for Merlin’s head, clumsily trying to push him away. “Need you,” he said. “Merlin, please.”

Merlin pulled away and moved to his knees between Arthur’s spread legs. Arthur’s insides clenched with desire when he saw the look on Merlin’s face—eyes dark, face intent and as hungry with lust as he himself felt. Merlin silently leaned over for the jar of salve by the bed, quickly slicked up his length, then positioned himself at Arthur’s hole, pushing in slowly.

When Merlin was as deep as he could go, he leaned over Arthur, bracing himself with his arms, and stared straight into his eyes as he said, “You’re mine.”

Arthur nodded wordlessly in agreement, heart thudding in his chest, his insides twisting from the raw possessiveness in Merlin’s voice. He would never be anyone else’s. Then he wrapped his legs around Merlin’s waist, urging him with his heels to move. 

As Merlin filled his body, thrusting in and out, his eyes began to glow with that golden fire and magic enveloped them both, rippling along their skin, encasing them in a cocoon of power. Arthur felt as if they were joined to their very bones, Merlin’s own essence penetrating every inch of him. The pleasure was so intense he didn’t even need a touch to his length; the caress of Merlin’s magic was enough to send him over the edge. He cried out, head thrown back, arching as his release pulsed onto his belly. Merlin went taut as well, burying his face in Arthur’s neck, grunting against his skin as his hips slammed into him a final few times, filling Arthur with his seed. Then he went boneless, collapsing on Arthur’s chest with a low satisfied moan. Arthur’s arms wrapped around him, and he held tight, murmuring words of love against the side of Merlin’s face.

-o-

Arthur blinked in the low light, leaning up on his elbow. He was alone in the bed.

“Merlin?”

“I’m here,” Merlin said and Arthur saw him standing by the window, looking out into the night. 

Arthur exited the bed and walked over to where he stood, wrapping his arms around his waist, kissing the side of his neck. Merlin was beautiful in the moonlight, his pale skin lit like starlight.

“What are you doing over here?” Arthur asked. “Come back to bed.”

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

Merlin shook his head. Arthur caught something in his expression. Sadness… melancholy… he wasn’t sure what.

“Tell me,” Arthur said. “No more secrets.”

Merlin was quiet, but Arthur waited for him to speak. Finally, he said, “Nothing’s really changed, has it?”

“Everything has changed.”

Merlin shook his head. “You’ll still be taking a wife, bearing an heir. You have your duty.”

Arthur turned Merlin around so he was facing him. He leaned in, licking into his mouth, kissing him deeply. Then he pulled back to look in Merlin’s eyes, shining brightly under the moon. So beautiful, Arthur mused. So beloved. He took Merlin’s face between his hands and said, “No.”

“No?” Merlin asked, eyes growing hopeful.

Arthur thought back to his walk through the lower town the day before. A young boy had run out from one of the shops, brandishing a stick, and barrelled directly into his legs. 

“Whoa there,” Arthur said, steadying him.

The boy looked up, eyes wide. “King Arthur,” he said, voice awed.

Arthur nodded in acknowledgement, letting the boy go.

The boy started chatting, excitedly. “When I get older, I’m going to be one of your knights. Look, I’m already practicing.” He swung his stick in front of him, like a sword.

His mother hurried out of the shop, then after dropping a quick curtsey grabbed the boy and held him against her thighs, her arm around his chest. “Don’t mind him, Your Highness,” she said. “He were just playing.”

Arthur knelt in front of the boy, moving down to his eye level. “What’s your name?”

“Kay, sir.”

“Well, Kay, mayhap you will.”

On the way back into to the castle an idea began to take root. Arthur stopped to stare at Camelot’s majestic walls, her pale stone—both beautiful and strong—the graceful towers with banners flying atop, like pale arms waving toward the heavens. His love for his kingdom had never faltered; it had only deepened after the recent strife. Staring at the home he loved so dear, his chest almost burst with pride at her glory. A vision of the future began to unfold, taking shape within his mind, with Camelot the very heart at the centre of his kingdom. Arthur couldn’t wait for Merlin to wake up so he could share it with him.

Now, staring into his beloved’s eyes, he knew that future was all but certain. “No,” he repeated, stroking Merlin’s cheeks with his thumbs, leaning in to kiss him tenderly again. “I shall take no wife. Camelot will be my bride.”

Merlin’s hands wrapped themselves around Arthur’s wrists, his own thumbs gently stroking the soft skin on their underside. “What about an heir?”

“I’ll choose an heir some other way. I’ve sent for Agravaine to oversee Cenred’s kingdom. Perhaps one of his kin. Or, who knows? Maybe Mordred, Morgana’s son, will prove worthy one day.”

Arthur kissed Merlin again, deeply, persuasively, letting him know there could be no other. “It is you who will be by my side,” he said. “For all the rest of my days.” He pulled back, momentarily uncertain. “If that is what you wish,” he added.

“It is,” Merlin said. “I’ve told you before; everything I am is yours.”

“Then come back to bed,” Arthur said, smiling, chest filling with warmth. He took Merlin’s hand and tugged him away from the window.

Merlin smiled and followed.

THE END.


End file.
